


On the Composition of Clouds

by ComeBackToTheValley



Category: Dimension 20 (Web Series)
Genre: (more detailed content warnings in the notes), Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Child Abandonment, Coming of Age, Discussion of Death, Family, Gen, POV Cumulous Rocks, Religious Upbringing, Trans Character, implied/referenced misgendering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:34:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25808935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComeBackToTheValley/pseuds/ComeBackToTheValley
Summary: Once upon a time, there was a boy who was a cloud.orBecoming Cumulous Rocks, elder monk of the Order of the Spinning Star, distant cousin of House Rocks, all-around war guy, and kisser of chocolate hens.
Relationships: Cumulous Rocks & Lazuli Rocks
Comments: 16
Kudos: 22





	On the Composition of Clouds

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by my general love for D&D monk characters, and my need for all the Cumulous lore.
> 
> Beta'ed by my friend Jude, who introduced me to Dimension 20 in the first place, and kept encouraging me to write D20 fic. Thanks for everything!
> 
> Content Warnings: Discussions and depictions of violence and death in line with the general ACOC setting and the main character's canonical D&D subclass (Way of Long Death), implied/referenced misgendering (but no direct misgendering or dead naming occurs within the story), discussions of child abandonment, low self worth, and a negative religious upbringing in a secluded religious community, with the implications that has. If attempted religious indoctrination makes you uncomfortable, it only occurs in the first section, which I will post a summary of in the end notes. Please approach at your own discretion.
> 
> In a Q&A, Brennan Lee Mulligan mentioned that people in Calorum can experience changes to their physical form depending on the environment they grew up in. I partially explore this concept in the first half of this fic, with an initial change caused by negative experiences in childhood, and further changes caused by coming of age and self discovery. The sections dealing directly with this concept are extremely brief, but do contribute to overall themes in the fic. None of the physical changes, positive or negative, occur in correlation to the trans character's gender identity. If body modification is an uncomfortable topic for you, this may not be the fic for you.

Once upon a time, there was a boy who was a cloud.

Although most people in the world are not, as a rule, clouds, and for that matter, most clouds are not, as a rule, people, the boy was not most people.For one thing, he really was very cloud-like.The secret to clouds is that they’re never quite what you think.Some look big and poofy and soft, others are stretched out all long and thin across the sky, there are dark clouds and heavy clouds and wispy clouds and clouds of all shapes and colours and sizes, but at the end of the day, a cloud is really just a passing thought of transient nature.

That is to say that clouds are a remarkable thing.To observe a cloud is to observe invisible change in visible form.Liquid becomes gas, gas becomes liquid, tangible into intangible into tangible, again and again, a process too small to see and yet visible to anyone who looks up from the ground.To be a cloud is to be always changing, always moving, always renewing.A cloud is change, a tale as old as time and as new with every retelling.

Once upon a time, there was a boy who was a cloud, and he lived in an abbey under the benevolent care of the Sisters of the Holy Order of Saint Turnipat.

It might sound unusual that a boy who was a cloud should live in someplace like an abbey, which is firmly rooted in many things including tradition, faith, the ground.But he had been born there, and seeing as he hadn’t a mother or a father, there weren’t really many other places for him to go.His mother had snuck away the morning after he was born, not even sticking around long enough to give him a name, and she’d never told the nuns who his father had been, so he probably didn’t even known that he had had a son.

The boy wasn’t too bothered about it.The sisters said that everyone belonged to one family under the Bulb, so it did not matter that he did not have a mother or father.The Bulb would be his mother and father, and the sisters would look after him as family should, and that was all the family that really mattered in the end.

At any rate, for a boy who was a cloud in a house that never moved, he had one small advantage in his favour.The thing about clouds and boys without parents is that most people tend not to think about them too much, unless they really do something very obvious, such as threatening a picnic with rain or tramping mud all over the chapel floor.Most of the time though, they’re meant to fade into the background, which is what most people would prefer, whether or not they like to say it. 

Clouds were very good at not being noticed until they were, so for a boy without parents, the idea of learning to be unseen until people did see him was something he picked up fairly quickly.Of course, the doing is usually harder than the knowing, but for a boy who was a cloud in a house that did not move, it was a leg up, and he needed all the legs he could get.

But that’s getting ahead of the story.

The first lesson that the sisters teach their wards, the first lesson that he learns, is the goodness of the Bulb.After all, the goodness of the Bulb is why they are all here, nuns and children alike, living peacefully and humbly behind the good, strong walls of the cloister.It was the Bulb’s power and grace that inspired the Mother Superior, many years ago, to leave her native land of Vegetania and establish an abbey here in Candia, to convert the heathens and counter the forces of witchcraft and evil that run so rampant in the land. 

And look at all that the Bulb has provided!They are well respected as a centre of piety and learning, a pillar of the community.The Bulb has softened the hearts of the royal family, and it is said that one of the princesses has come to be a devout follower of the faith.It is even rumoured that the Bulb has blessed her devotion with the ability to work miracles.All this from the labours that Mother Superior began!

“Look at all the good that the Bulb is able to do through us,” Sister Kalenea says as they sit neatly around her in the grass, under the sweet shade of the old peppermint tree in the courtyard “We run a school for the children of the poor, children that would never be able to receive an education otherwise.We look after the sick and the weary that come to our doorsteps, provide comfort and healing for the people that need it most.Our humble library preserves a thousand years of history and doctrine, to teach and train others in the ministry of the Bulb.”

She leans forward, and winks at Cherise, a little cupcake girl with a cherry nose, who is looking at Sister Kalenea with big eyes.

“And of course, we’ve been able to look after all of you children,” Sister Kalenea says, pinching Cherise’s cheek lightly “And what a beautiful blessing from the Bulb you all are!”

The second lesson that the sisters teach their wards is gratitude.Out in the world, that wild, pagan world still so full of witches and witchcraft, there are many unfortunate children.No parents or family to look out for them, or worse, wicked parents that did not teach them right from wrong.Those poor souls would grow up never knowing the truth and the light, never have the chance to join the blessed ranks of the Bulb when they died.

Yes, they are very fortunate in here.The nuns look after them, give them good clothes, good, healthy food, teach them well, make sure they grew up strong and healthy and always in the light of the Bulb.

Yes, they are very lucky, indeed.

The third lesson that the sisters teach their wards is obedience.Obedience to the sisters, obedience to the law, and above all else, obedience to the Bulb.It is all for their good.Only by obeying could one be good, and only the good would be saved by the Bulb when the Hungry One came to devour the world. 

“To question is to doubt,” Sister Kalenea says “No one can understand the perfect ways of the Bulb, but if you have true belief, your mortal ignorance becomes like chaff on the wind.Never forget, young ones, that doubt is the enemy of belief.”

Sister Kalenea is their teacher.She is very old and very wise, and above all, she loves the Bulb with all her heart, and she has studied the Bulb’s teachings for a long, long time.Only Mother Superior knows more about the Bulb that Sister Kalenea, but that’s why she’s the Mother Superior. 

“When the time comes, the Bulb will defeat the Hungry One forever, and all of us will share in the glorious eternity to follow,” Sister Kalenea says “All in the Bulb’s time.It is not ours to question the Bulb’s will or plan.Remember, to question is to doubt, and to doubt is to be faithless.”

He lowers his hand and looks down at the desk until he can’t feel Sister Kalenea looking at him anymore.He isn’t faithless, he’s not.He says his prayers every day, and he’s learning all the songs in the psalmody, and he never falls asleep during service, even when the sermon is really long and really boring.The Bulb is good, the Bulb is great, the Bulb has watched over him his entire life and he loves the Bulb, even though he doesn’t understand very much about the Bulb.Why-

No, questions are doubt and doubt means not having faith and not having faith means being a wicked, foolish child.He doesn’t want to be wicked, honest, he doesn’t.He doesn’t even _mean_ to be wicked.Not being wicked is very, very hard because he is very foolish, but even fools can be saved, Sister Kalenea says so.They just have to work twice as hard as everyone else.

He doesn’t ask any more questions.The temptation to be wicked is just too great.

But even though he tries his best not to be wicked in class, he can’t seem to help being wicked and foolish and disobedient all the time, even when he’s trying really really hard not to be.Sister Meloneth, who’s in charge of the dormitory, is always having to raise her voice at him because he’s running around and making too much noise and not being still at all.

“This house is a place of quiet and holy contemplation!” Sister Meloneth says, raising her voice very loud because she wants to make sure she’s being very clear and heard “How can anyone still their hearts in meditation with such a racket about?”

He doesn’t mean to be loud, he really doesn’t.He wasn’t trying to talk loud at all.He was just saying hello to the marshmallow ducklings in the pond.And of course, they wouldn’t know any people language, so he thought he’d try duck language so that they could understand what he was saying.

“Come here, children!” Sister Meloneth says, sounding mad “Form your lines.Since you cannot play in a quiet and appropriate manner, we are going to the chapel to pray, so that you may learn what kind of behaviour we expect in this house.”

Everyone groans.The sun is bright and shining today, with fluffy pink cotton candy clouds in the sky and all the little insects and animals coming out to eat and play and enjoy themselves in the warm light.It’s a perfect day for playing, not for kneeling on the chapel’s cold stone floor and praying.

“Thanks for nothing,” someone hisses as they get into their lines, and he feels someone behind shoving him.He stumbles a little, but he has really good balance, so he doesn’t fall down.Sister Meloneth turns around.

“Ssh!” she says with a very severe look on her face “We go now to pray, and we will do so quietly and orderly.”

There are couple more bumps as they walk out of the sunshine, through the cloisters, back into the abbey.But he starts to figure out where they’re coming from, just before they happen, so he doesn’t stumble anymore or make any more noise.Sister Meloneth is always saying that children should be seen and not heard, and that if anyone has difficulty doing that, they shouldn’t be seen until they learn better.

He definitely needs to learn better, because people are always hearing him, no matter what he does.He needs to be quiet, be still.Don’t be seen, don’t be heard.People keep noticing him, so he needs to be unnoticeable.Here but not really here, like a ghost that’s here but that no one sees.

 _Oh Bulb_ , he prays, super silent in his head, _help me be good, and if I’m too wicked to be good, help me be not seen until I learn to be good.I want to be good, I do.Please help me.I’m trying my best, but it’s really hard.I need your help._

He wears little nail marks into his palms, from making fists all the time so that his hands won’t get idle and start touching and playing with things.He makes his head hurt sometimes with how tight he bites down his teeth so that he won’t be tempted to say anything and then that might be loud.He wears holes into his socks grinding his feet into the ground because then he won’t run around all over the place. 

That’s the hardest.He’s a good runner, the best runner in the abbey.He can get anywhere faster than anyone.But running is noisy, running is big stomping sounds all over the floor and loud pants echoing all around the walls.Running is loud, so he can’t do it, even when there’s a rare breeze blowing through the yard and all he wants to do is race it round and round until he’s dizzy.

The Bulb is real.The Bulb answers his prayers.His tough blue skin, almost like rock sugar, softens into a spun flesh, dull, greyish, that clings to his bones and makes him slight and small.His curls become wispy and pale and flyaway, like a puff of white breath in the cold.If he’s careful, and stands very, very still, he can almost blend into the sombre stone walls of the abbey and the sisters stop noticing him at all, leastways long as they’re not looking for him.

So he learns many things from the sisters.He learns about the Bulb, and he learns about good and evil, and about how it’s important to be good, obedient children, not wicked and foolish ones.He learns how to be quiet, he learns not to ask questions, and he learns that although he may be a very foolish boy, prone to wickedness, the Bulb’s mercy is greater than all that.With hard work, self restraint, and persistence, he may one day be worthy of stepping forth into the light of the Bulb.

That is really all that a good Bulbian needs to learn, and the sisters did a very good job of teaching it, and if that were all the things he ever learned from them, he would be a very good Bulbian indeed.

But the sisters have one more thing left to teach him.

It’s winter, and a bad cough spreads its way through the abbey, brought in by a sick petitioner and quickly spreading to everyone else.All it takes is for one child to get sick and soon, half the dormitory is coughing and wheezing.Even the sisters are not spared.They lose old Sister Kalenea one long, cold night, and the Mother Superior herself is seen coughing into a delicate handkerchief.

The sisters move all the sick people into the infirmary and quarantine the building.He helps carry some of the younger kids there before Sister Radeshelle, the infirmary matron, puts a hand to his forehead, frowns severely, and orders him to the nearest bed.He has a few bad sleepless nights, where it feels like every drop of fluid in his body is coming up through his throat, hack by agonizing hack, but he’s always been pretty lucky with getting better quick.It only takes a few days before Sister Radeshelle is firmly lecturing him back to bed while everyone else is still coughing weakly around him.

“The Bulb has chosen to bless you with good health and a strong body,” Sister Radeshelle says, tucking the bottle of sticky sweet cough syrup back into her apron “I should like to keep you one more night, to be certain, but there is no reason why you should not be back on your feet tomorrow.”

He has to bite his lip not to smile —pride is a sin, it shows self-conceit rather than acknowledging that all good things come from the Bulb— but there’s still a big feeling welling up inside him.The Bulb has chosen to bless him!The Bulb does not bless sinners.He must not be so wicked now, he must be starting to become good.Everything he’s worked so hard for, every time he’s kept still, listened to the sisters, tried so, so hard to be a good Bulbian, it hasn’t been for nothing.He’s on the right path, the path of goodness.

That night, he can’t go to sleep.He’s spent the last week doing nothing but lying in bed and miserably dropping off to sleep whenever the medicine stops the coughing a little, and then there’s the promise of leaving the infirmary tomorrow.How can any boy sleep with all that?A dozen thoughts bounce around his head.He’s going to go to the chapel and offer a prayer of thanks for his healing, but after that, there’s a whole snowy courtyard that’s going to be almost empty because everyone is sick inside.He can lie back and sink into the sugar snow drifts and pretend he’s lying on a big, fluffy cloud.It’s even a quiet thing, so no one can raise their voice about it!It’s going to be the best day ever.

He’s imagining the crunch of stepping into fresh snow when he hears someone talking very quietly in front of his bed.He’s always had very good ears, and that’s without the whole hall being quiet at night and the person talking right in front of him.It’s not really his fault that he starts listening.After all, anyone would be curious about why someone would be talking in front of their bed at night.

“-extraordinary recovery, you say?”

That’s Mother Superior Garlisha.She’s very old and very tough and keeps telling everyone that she’s not sick, even though Sister Radeshelle keeps trying to make her lie down. 

“Very extraordinary,” Sister Radeshelle’s voice says, in an even lower voice.If he didn’t have very good ears, he could barely hear her at all “But I suppose it’s only to be expected, given who the father is.You hear stories…That whole family has a reputation for resilience.”

There is a heavy silence.He wonders who they’re talking about and why they’re talking about them in front of his bed.Are they talking about him?He got better very quickly.But no one knows who his father is.His mother left without telling anyone anything.They must be talking about someone else.

He wonders if he should let them know that he’s awake.Sister Meloneth says that it’s rude to listen to things that aren’t meant for you.But then they might get upset that he’s disturbing them.

He decides to be quiet.He’s very good at that.

“Resilience to the point of foolishness and ignorance,” Mother Superior says at last “Poor child.No one can help their parents, but blood, I’m afraid, always does tell in the end.I’ve suspected that’s where all our troubles comes from.What else can you expect, with a father like that?A weak, adulterous man, despising the holy bond of matrimony with what, a foolish young servant girl?It’s a wonder we haven’t had anything worse.”

“It’s a shame,” Sister Radeshelle says, sighing “I do wonder though.I mean, you look at the Princess Citrina, and she’s so devout, blessed by the Bulb, they say-“

“Her good mother is Fructeran,” Mother Superior interrupts “The Fructerans have long been receptive to the message of the Bulb.And no matter how… _impure_ her father is, she remains protected by the bounds of holy wedlock.Although that is no guarantee.I’ve been hearing disturbing rumours that the Princess Lazuli has been dabbling in witchcraft.”

A sharp breath.

“May the Bulb save her soul if that is true!” Sister Radeshelle says in an even quieter whisper.

“Indeed,” Mother Superior says, sounding solemn “We must pray daily for the salvation of that family.They set an example for the rest of the land by virtue of their position.If there is weakness and licentiousness among them, how can we expect the commoners to be any better?This is why no one can ever know about the child.Can you imagine the scandal if the whole affair were to become known?To say nothing of the damage that a wicked person could do with the information.Blackmail, or worse, and our house caught up in it!”

“Of course you’re right, Reverend Mother,” Sister Radeshelle murmurs.

“Well, at least the foolish girl had the sense to come to us,” Mother Superior says with a little sigh “I was skeptical at first, when I heard her story.It wouldn’t be the first time some little harlot got herself into trouble and decided to try her luck at claiming a noble father.But it was clear, once I saw the babe, that it was true.Fortunately, that resemblance has largely faded.You wouldn’t think, just by looking, to know the truth.And what’s done is done.All we can do is pray that the Bulb extends his mercy to the poor child.”

“I believe he is already at work,” Sister Radeshelle says “This swift recovery is really quite extraordinary.And Sister Meloneth says that the child’s behaviour has improved greatly.She hasn’t had to raise her voice in months, and just a few weeks ago, she heard the child perfectly recite all Fourteen Prayers of St. Lettucia the Divine.”

But that was him!He’d worked on memorizing them for weeks and weeks, saying them over and over in his head, being careful not to start muttering them and then disturbing people, until he knew them backwards and forwards and upside down and right-side up.Sister Meloneth had given him a rare smile when he recited them to her during play time, and she’d let him have an extra raisin cookie at dinner that night.

But that means they’re talking about him. 

But-

“We can only wait and see,” Mother Superior says.She sounds faint, like she’s all the way down a hall and he’s listening from the other end, and his ears have been stuffed with fluff to boot.His heart is beating so loud he’s sure that any moment now, the sisters will hear it and realize he’s there.But it isn’t beating so loud that he can’t hear what Mother Superior says next “No matter what, a bastard is still a bastard.”

Sister Radeshelle says something that he can’t hear.Above the pounding of his heart, there’s Mother Superior’s voice, saying the word again and again and again. _Bastard_.Cursing is forbidden, but there are stories in the Book of Leaves, stories about good people and bad people, stories about kings and priests and warriors and prophets…and bastards.

They were never good people.They could never _be_ good people.Everyone was born in sin, but bastards were born _from_ it.Only through the Bulb’s almighty grace and power could they hope to even _do_ good, to serve the Bulb’s plans despite their sinful nature.But they would never _be_ good enough, they would never be worthy of the Bulb.

He…is a bastard.That was him they were talking about.He memorized all Fourteen Prayers, he got better so very quickly.He-

He has a _father_.The sisters had known, all along.They knew that he had a father, and they knew who he was, and they never told him.They… _lied_ about it.And they’d lied about his mother too.They said that they didn’t know who she was, that she didn’t tell them anything, but she told them who his father was, she told them, that’s how they know.

He has a _father._ The sisters _lied_.They told him they didn’t know anything about his parents.They told him that the Bulb loved him.They told him that if he was good enough, grateful enough, obedient enough, the Bulb would save him from destruction.

He…he will never be good enough.He can’t be.No matter what he does.The Bulb will never- _can_ never love him like it loves everyone else.

The sound of footsteps fading away into the night cuts through the thunder quivering within him.He doesn’t have to open his eyes to know that he’s alone again.He’s alone.Alone.

He opens his eyes.The infirmary is dark, lit only by the thin moonlight streaming in through the sugar-glass windows.Nothing stirs.In the daylight, the walls of the infirmary are painted a soft, warm yellow.It is a reminder, Sister Radeshelle says, that the light of the Bulb shines down on everyone in their darkest hour, bringing healing and comfort.In the night, in the dark and the dim, the world is blue.Cold, quiet, unfeeling.And honest.Everything is honest when nothing needs to hide anymore.

He gets up out of bed.He steps, light and quiet, through the halls.Someone could see him, but no one will.He’s sure about that.

He’s very, very good at not being seen.

The sisters chose their home well.The abbey is a solid building made of good stone and strong, heavy wood.When the gates are barred, no one enters or leaves except by the sisters’ permission.All the outside doors are locked at nightfall, barred and bolted until the next dawn.Mother Superior keeps the keys in her office, and whoever does the locking up that night goes to her for them.

Mother Superior is not in her office right now.Mother Superior is praying in the chapel, with Sister Radeshelle.He sees them, on his way through the halls, hears them, as he presses against the open crack of the chapel doors, just barely ajar.They’re praying a prayer of healing and cleansing, for the wellbeing of the abbey.May all evil and worldly impurity be washed away from this holy house, protect your followers, o Almighty Bulb, spare us from the torment of our sins.

He slips away.

Mother Superior’s office is locked, but the window isn’t.It’s the easiest thing in the world to slip inside, silent as a chocolate cherry mouse, take the keys from their hook, steal back out without a trace.A light snow starts as he pads across the courtyard, all the better to hide in.In the swirl of sugar snow, he is a breath across a frosted pane.

It isn’t until the eastern side door is unlocked and the world lies before him that he pauses, stops.The cold is biting, but that isn’t it.The silent night is deafening, but that isn’t it.The falling snow —only a dusting but how the whistling wind whirls it about!— wraps around him in a cocoon.

How strange, the feeling of the truth.The real truth, not the truth that lies in the mouth or the truth that’s written in ink.It’s a powerful thing.He doesn’t understand it all, not yet, but he understands enough.Why the sisters always watch him with the eyes and ears of a buttercream hawk, swooping in at the first sign of wickedness.Why he’s always had to try so hard, and why it’s always been so terribly, terribly difficult, being good.Why it’s never, ever been enough, and it’s never, ever going to be enough.

The sisters teach their wards many lessons.They teach them about the goodness of the Bulb, about gratitude, about obedience.They teach that if one is good enough and grateful enough and obedient enough, one will be worthy of receiving the Bulb’s great light.

The sisters are liars. 

He can never be good enough, grateful enough, obedient enough.

The sisters are liars.

Lying is a sin.Good people do not lie.Good people have no need to lie.If the sisters are liars, they are not good people.They cannot know the Bulb’s ways.They are not worthy of the Bulb.

The sisters are liars.

If they are liars, if they are not good people, if they are not real Bulbians, how can he trust that anything they’ve said is true?All he knows about the Bulb comes from the sisters.They could have lied about it all. 

They could have lied about everything.

The Bulb…is not good.He feels a shudder that’s not from the cold.It’s the feeling of being cut loose only to drift in a vast, careless emptiness.Behind is familiarity, comfort, community.Ahead is strangeness, fear, loneliness.Behind is a lie.Ahead-

He doesn’t know what’s ahead.He doesn’t know anything anymore.

Once upon a time, there was a boy who was a cloud.He lived in a house that was rooted to the ground, with people who were rooted to the ground, and for a long time, he had tried so very, very hard to be a person who was rooted to the ground too.

But clouds are meant to fly.

Once upon a time, there was a boy who was a cloud, and he was meant to fly.

He steps through the door, and vanishes with the wind.

* * *

Once upon a time, there was a boy who was a cloud, and for the very first time, he met the world.

The world is big.The world is loud.The world has _so many things_ to teach.

He learns what it means to be hungry.In the house that never moved, no matter what else, the sisters had always fed them well.And they were right about one thing.In the world, no one cares for children without parents.They have to look after themselves.

He learns what it means to be ignored.The sisters, no matter how much they didn’t really want to see or hear him, still acknowledged him, even if it was only as part of a group with the other children.In the world, eyes slide right past him without stopping, people talk and shout and laugh and cry to each other right over his head without once noticing that he’s there.

He’s finally done it.He’s finally become invisible.And he didn’t even have to ask for the Bulb’s help with it.

He learns to run.He’s always been quick on his feet, the fastest one in the abbey, but now he learns how to really run, how to dodge, how to hide.He’s learning that when he’s not invisible, when people do notice him, they tend not to want him around.Ragamuffin.Guttersnipe.Miscreant.Street rat.He’s learning a lot of new words, usually shouted angrily as he’s evicted from a doorstep or chased down the street. 

He doesn’t mind though, not really.They’re funny, especially since he isn’t a muffin or a snipe or a rat.People seem to like using words that aren’t true, though he doesn’t think they mean to be liars, like the sisters.It’s certainly better than _bastard._

The one he’s most fond of isn’t a new word, but he likes it all the same. _Boy._ Shouted loudly by a woman shooing him away from her trash bins, thrown casually by a busy baker thrusting a muffin at him, spit scornfully by another street kid just before a fight.In the abbey, the sisters had taught them that there were two types of people called boys and girls, and everyone was one or the other, but they were all the Bulb’s dear children anyways, whether they were boys or girls.So there was no point in vanity because the Bulb didn’t look at the outside but the inside, and as long as you were a good boy or a good girl inside, worldly vanities meant nothing.

This usually came up when someone complained that their tunic didn’t fit properly, since the sisters gave everyone the same, plain clothes to wear, and it didn’t always fit right.It was ungrateful to complain about perfectly good, serviceable clothing, and wicked vanity to want anything else.They were orphans, they were fortunate to have anything at all.

But in the world, people are all different shapes and sizes and colours, and all of this is so, so _important_.How their hair looks, what clothes they wear, what things they do, all of that tells other people if they’re a boy or a girl or both or neither.That’s another thing the sisters are wrong about, people don’t just have to be boys or girls.He’s learning so much.

Well, he likes this bit, the dressing up.He gets some boy clothing from a charity bin outside a little Bulbosi chapel.It’s meant for the poor anyways, and he’s poor, so that’s not really stealing.He’s just saving himself from having to go through the Bulbians to get it.He trades a fresh scone, this one really stolen from a market stall, for a haircut from old Twizzle on the street corner.That is not strictly just a boy thing.It’s a lot of bother having long hair whipping around in his face when he’s running, and it gets tangled and dirty so easily.But it feels good, after, to have the breeze against the back of his neck, to hear the wind whistling in his ears, to hear people calling after him, “Boy!” 

It feels _good_ , hearing that.The sisters had called him a girl, said he was a girl, but the sisters are liars, and they’re so wrong about so many things that of course they got that wrong too.He’s definitely not a girl, whether it’s the sisters’ idea of a girl or the world’s idea of a girl.It’s just not right.It’s never really been right.He’s never felt attached to being a girl, always thought of himself as _him_ self.It’s just that he’s never imagined til now that he can disagree with the sisters, that he doesn’t have to settle for whatever they tell him to.

Here, in the world, people call him _boy,_ they say _he_ and _him_ and _his_ , and it’s never felt more right.

He learns about names, too.Even names are supposed to be boy-ish or girl-ish or both or neither, and he never knew that.Almost none of the other kids in the abbey had really liked their names.The sisters had given them names by picking them out of the Book of Leaves, or calling them after famous people in the Church’s history, and those were boring, adult names.Some kids shortened their names or got nicknames, but it didn’t really matter.The sisters called them whatever they wanted, and that was that.

The first time someone asks his name, he doesn’t think when he tells them what the sisters called him.The other kid blinks, and looks at him, very confused.

“But…” he says, frowning “I thought…That’s a _girl’s_ name.”

It is?He thinks about it.He supposes that it is the name of a woman in the Book of Leaves, and he’s never particularly liked it very much, but no one’s ever called him anything else.Now it occurs to him that he doesn’t _have_ to be called that.He’s not with the sisters anymore.He doesn’t have to be grateful for anything they’ve given him.Especially if it never felt right in the first place.

The next time someone asks him his name, it still catches him off guard, but mostly because not a lot of people bother to ask his name now.Miss Strudy, the tinkerer’s daughter is paying him for a bag of caramel shard scraps — a reliable way to earn a few coins, old man Eddy never seems to stop needing materials to make little trinkets and things, and anyone can find little bits and pieces of discarded caramel shards if they look hard enough.

“What’s your name?” she says politely enough as she rummages through the bag, inspecting the shards inside.

“Ah…” his mind goes blank.What is a name that sounds like a boy’s?He grabs on to the first one that comes to mind, some merchant who’d chased him off his doorstep a few nights ago “Reese.”

Immediately, it feels wrong coming out of his mouth, but Miss Strudy doesn’t seem to notice.

“Well, everything seems to be in order,” she says, closing the bag and taking out a few coins “Here you go, thank you very much, Reese.Father will be pleased.”

It feels even more wrong to hear it being said at him, and he doesn’t even count the coins as he leaves the house.No, he’s very much not a Reese, although he doesn’t know _what_ exactly he is yet.But he’s got to come up with something, because people have names and they expect names and now that he thinks about it, he would quite like a name of his own too.If nothing else, he’s certainly not keeping the one the sisters gave him. _That_ is definitely not him.

He changes his name five times in the next few months, although part of that is because another lesson he’s learning is how convenient a _fake_ name is.When some city guards catch him and a couple of other kids scrounging around the bins outside a cafe, he tells them his name is Willy Loompa with full confidence that he has never used that name before and will never use it again after this.

It makes the other kids snicker, although they also give perfectly ridiculous names that no one, not even the guards, are fooled by.

All things considered, the world is so much bigger and better and worse than he could ever have imagined.There are the bad parts, of course there are, things the sisters warned him about and more.Being hungry isn’t nice.Being cold isn’t nice.Being chased by angry people, shouted at and kicked at, having things like rotted fruit and hard pastries thrown at him, none of that is nice.The world doesn’t have a lot of kindness in it, and certainly not for kids on the streets without parents to look after them.It’s louder than he could ever be, so loud that sometimes he almost misses the peaceful quiet of the abbey, and chaotic and harsh.There’s no place in it for people who can’t look after themselves.

But there are good parts too.Getting to run around as much as he likes, and not having to worry that he’s disturbing anyone when he’s talking or just standing there, that’s nice.Getting to look like a boy and have people recognize he’s a boy, that’s _amazing_.Not having to pray all the time, and memorize things from books, and go to chapel every few hours, that’s something he could never have imagined wanting before, but he couldn’t go back to now, not ever.

He’s changed, or maybe he’s not changed, and this is just who he really was that he never got to be with the sisters.His skin is blue again, almost like it was when he was young, before he learned to be quiet and still.That happened right away, the night he left, he woke up in the morning to find himself blue and not from the cold.It’s a bit brighter than before, he thinks, more vibrant, but that isn’t a bad thing.He likes bright colours.It’s a lot better than grey.It won’t harden again though, like how it was before, but he doesn’t mind that much.Being unseen and light on his feet is still something he very much needs to be.

But he likes it here, in the world.There’s so much to learn, so much more than the sisters ever taught.Oh, the sisters were so wrong, about so many things!He sees a lot of what the sisters would call wickedness, and a lot of what they would call goodness, and usually, it’s all from the same person.People are messy!They do good things and bad things right after the other, or even at the same time.Sometimes, they do good things for bad reasons, and bad things for good reasons.It’s hard to tell just by someone doing something whether or not they’re really good or bad after all.

There’s people like Farmer Maple, who’ll let him and the other street kids have any food that he can’t sell at market.It’s a little generous, because he doesn’t have to do it, and it’s a lot better than picking it out of a trash heap.But, as the other kids say when Farmer Maple can’t hear, he’s also doing it so that he doesn’t have to get rid of the bad stock himself.And it isn’t like it’s very good food either, not if it didn’t sell at market.It’s just better than being hungry.

There’s people like Madame Frutti, the alewife.She likes to experiment with different ingredients, and she often pays kids to run errands for her, getting special fruits and nuts and things.She only pays a few coins, just enough to be worth the effort, but if she’s gotten something nice and she’s in a very good mood, she might throw in a small cup of good ale as a bonus.Everyone knows she isn’t paying kids to work for her because she wants to give them money.They’re just cheaper than having a real assistant.But it’s still money in his pocket, and there’s not many that would even look at an urchin without chasing them away.It’s still kindness, even if it’s selfish.

There’s people like Jolly Raunchére, the tavern keep.If the tavern isn’t too busy that night and there’s room in the stables, they’ll let as many kids as can fit sleep there, and even bring out scraps from the main room, so long as they don’t disturb the guests or cause a ruckus.There’s no reason they need to do this, and there’s probably guests that would complain if they knew who was sleeping next to their meeps, but they still do it.Just because.

He decides, pretty quickly, that it’s not any of his business whether or not people are really good or really bad inside.That’s their own business.He’s got other things to worry about.

The thing is-

The thing is, his mother left.He’d only been a few hours old when she’d gone.And that was alright, the sisters had said.Much better that they, devout Bulbians, look after him and raise him properly.Certainly much better than if his mother, some poor, sinful girl, had to do it.Now run along, you’ll be late for lessons.

The sisters are liars. 

They lied about so many things.They told him they didn’t know who his parents were.That was a lie.They told him that they were his family.That was a lie.They told him that the Bulb loved him.That was definitely a lie.They told him his mother just left him with them.

The thing is, he doesn’t know anymore.What they lied about, and what they didn’t.He doesn’t remember being born.He doesn’t remember anything about his mother.Not even a memory of a touch.It isn’t like he thinks she stayed long enough for it to matter.But she left him with the sisters instead of abandoning him in the street.She told them who his father was, what did she do that?Maybe…maybe she was hoping that one day they would tell him.

She had to care.She had to care at least a little.

He has nothing to go on.If she told the sisters her name, the sisters never told him what it was.He doesn’t even know what she looks like, although he likes to imagine that he looks like her.All he knows is that she was a servant, and he imagines that there are probably lots of servants that come and go in a castle.Especially if she’d been pregnant, he doesn’t think she’d be a servant very long after that.He doesn’t know much about lords and ladies, but he knows that people don’t like having bastard kids around.

It’s really nothing to go on.It isn’t like he can waltz up to the castle and tell them he’s looking for his mother.It definitely isn’t like he can waltz up to the castle and tell them he wants to talk to his father, ask who his mother is.

And he doesn’t want to.Doesn’t care to.Doesn’t like to.Talk to his father, that is.He doesn’t know how much his mother cared about him.He thinks _(hopes)_ she must have cared at least a little, but he knows that there’s no way his father does.If he even knows he exists.Probably not.Why should he care about a servant’s kid when he has his own children to love?

No, he’s made out fine without a father for years.He’s made out fine without a mother too, he’s just curious.Wants to know her name.Who she is.Where she is.Why she left him with the sisters.And maybe, maybe he secretly hopes that the sisters are the biggest liars in the realm.That she never wanted to leave him, and the sisters made her.That she’s looking for him too, somewhere out there.That she really loves him, and she’s delighted that he’s found her again, and she wants to be his mother now that he’s grown and doesn’t need a lot of looking after like a baby does.

He looks for her.He tries.Every face he sees, everyone he meets, he tries to look, tries to find anything familiar, any trace of recognition.He listens for the name the sisters gave him — maybe the sisters told her what they were going to call him, she doesn’t know that’s not his name, she could be looking for him right now. 

He searches every street, every market, in Dulcington, even sneaks rides out to the surrounding villages on the backs of traders’ carts.Maybe she didn’t stay in the city after she left him, maybe she went away, went somewhere else.She couldn’t have gone very far, especially if she was poor.Maybe she’s living somewhere near, waiting for him to come and find her.Maybe she’s sitting in her home, thinking about him, wondering when she’ll ever see him again.

He hopes-

He doesn’t find her.Of course he doesn’t.How could he have found her, with nothing to go on, not even a name, and no way to find out more?The sisters might know something that could help, but he’s never going back, so that’s out.It was an impossible hope from the beginning.A stupid idea.A waste of time.

He doesn’t know if he’s relieved or not.That he’ll never have to find out, never have to be let down.

_(-stupid, if she really loved you, she would have kept you, wouldn’t have gone, wouldn’t have vanished, she doesn’t care, of course she doesn’t care, you’re just an inconvenience, a bastard, just look around you, no one wants you, no one cares, why would she, why would anyone-)_

Sometimes, if he gets a coin, he’ll hold it for a while, look at it, look at the face on it.He knows what Mother Superior said that night, knows that there’s nothing to find, no similarity, no resemblance.Or not anymore. 

Still, people have to look like their parents, don’t they?At least a little.Everyone comes from somewhere.No matter what happens to them, no matter how they grow up, there’s still got to be something that says where they’re from, who they belong to.

He sees a long and thin face, almost like his own, but softer, without the sunken cheeks and hollowed eyes.That’s new, the eyes, they weren’t like that before, back in the abbey.Being hungry all the time will do that, probably.Maybe, if he squints hard enough, imagines hard enough, maybe there’s almost a resemblance.The narrowness of the face, the sharpness of the nose.But imagining doesn’t make anything real.

He doesn’t look like anyone.He doesn’t belong to anyone. 

The hardest thing he learns is that the sisters were right.It’s alright that he doesn’t have parents.He’s never had them, and he doesn’t need them.Where the sisters are wrong is that he doesn’t need _anyone_ to look out for him.He’s taking care of himself just fine.It isn’t comfortable, it isn’t nice, but he’s fine.He doesn’t need anyone to care about him, which is a good thing, because no one does and no one will.

He learns to survive.Whatever he has to do.

He isn’t…It isn’t like he’s _trying_ to be wicked, or what the sisters would call wicked.That’s a whole other business that he doesn’t have time to worry about, what is or isn’t wicked.But it isn’t like he’s deliberately setting out to do bad things, or that he especially likes doing them.It’s just that he still needs to eat, and he still needs to live, and when no one’s being very kind or generous, there aren’t a lot of other options left.

He learns how to steal, little things that won’t be missed until he’s far gone, and never too often from the same place.He learns which shop-keeps are sharper-eyed and which ones are slow on their feet, which ones will call the guards and which ones will let him away even when they’ve seen him do it.This is where all those years of learning to be quiet come in really useful.He’s a whisper on the wind, here and gone with his prize before anyone notices.

He learns how to pickpocket.This too, the abbey prepared him for.He already knows how to be invisible, and as a kid on the street, people go out of their way to pretend they don’t see him.That makes it so easy to slip up to them, make a slit in their purses, lift a few treasures out of their pockets or bags.

He’s gets pretty good at it.He gets requests, sometimes, from other kids for lessons.

He learns how to fight.Not that he’s very big or strong, not compared to everyone else, but he’s quick and he’s clever enough.He learns that he doesn’t need to throw the hardest punch, just the right one in the right place.A merchant grabs him by the arm once, a large, heavy man with tight fingers.He aims for the knees, then at the crotch for good measure, and runs away while the man wheezes in pain on the ground.

And he learns what death is.

Death is a bone thin corpse, huddled up in an alley, starved to death.Death is a frozen body desperately pressed up against a closed door, to be discovered the next morning with screams and calls for the city guard.Death is a wheezing old man, sitting in the gutter, no strength to even raise his head and beg, alive, but dead in every way.

Death is a bloody bottle shard in the night, a vicious fight over the smallest scraps.People will fight to the death for the tiniest chance at life.Death is a woman smiling too fondly, elaborately made up in fancy clothes, who says that she has a nice big house with warm food and lots of money, and all you need to do to live in it is to do a little work for her.Death is a rich man who shouts too loudly, the tramp of the city guards’ boots, the clank of manacles.Death is one step too slow, one mistake too many.

Death comes for everyone in the end.The Hungry One, if there really is a Hungry One and the sisters weren’t lying about that too, will feed eventually.That, or the rot will.

But first, it’s got to catch him.And he’s getting a lot of practice in on never getting caught.

He slips up a lot, at first.Gets a couple tannings from angry shop keeps, even a drubbing from the city guard once.It’s a good incentive to get better, and never let it be said that he’s not willing to learn.After all, he once memorized all Fourteen Prayers of St. Lettucia the Divine, just because he thought that the sisters would like it.

He’s a quick study, given a good enough motivation, and he’s got a very good motivation.Jail, he decides, is not something that he wants to learn very much about.He’s seen people marched off by the city guard in chains, and just the sight of the heavy manacles was enough to make his stomach turn.He’s escaped from one prison, he has no interest in being stuck in another.So he makes himself be better, quicker, smarter, until he stops getting caught.

“Vanished into thin air,” he hears a merchant complain to the guard, arrived too late, while he hides just around the corner, behind a rubbish bin “Like a puff of wind or something.Barely clapped my eyes on him and he was gone.”

There’s a feeling welling up inside him that he can’t describe, only that it’s like a great bubble rising up, up, up his throat, up through his head, until he’s light as a feather and could float through the sky if he pleased.Is this what the sisters called “pride?”All puffed up inside, head full of nothing but air?It’s strange, but not unpleasant.That feeling of accomplishment, of doing something and being good at it. 

Maybe that’s why it happens.Maybe it’s because his head is so full of air that he forgets to use his brain.He keeps being fast and he keeps being sneaky and he does so well at running away that he forgets to be careful, forgets to think things through. 

Because if he was really thinking things through, he would have noticed that the candy corn woman wasn’t as old as she looked.He would have noticed that her walking stick was too well made to be a simple walking stick.He would have noticed that even though her face was lined with wrinkles, her eyes were bright and alert.

But he doesn’t notice any of that until she whirls around and whacks him solidly on the forehead as he tries to pick her pocket.

“That’s enough of that,” she says as he stumbles back, reflexively grabbing at the spot where she hit him “Trying to steal from me, were you?”

His eyes are watering and blurry from the stun of the hit.He thinks of running, this is all clearly going to go very badly for him if he doesn’t, but the whole world is spinning and he can’t move his feet.He can’t move anything.All his limbs feel like jelly, and his legs give out under him.He falls flat on his ass, and there’s only the woman staring down at him, looking stern.

“Of course,” she says, almost as an afterthought “That was a good attempt.Too obvious with the actual theft, that was sloppy, but I didn’t sense you until then, so well done.I’m a difficult person to sneak past.”

He hasn’t got a clue what she’s talking about, except that she doesn’t sound too angry, so maybe he can get away without any more trouble.He’s been stupid, she obviously isn’t a good mark, and he should have figured that out.Not figuring stuff like that out is going to get him killed one day, if it doesn’t get him killed today.

“Here, you,” she says, looking right at him.He can see her clearly now, a short candy corn woman with long bandages wrapped all around her arms and legs.She’s old, but not as old as he thought, and she can definitely hit much harder than she looks like she can “What is your name?”

A snarky answer almost trips off his tongue before he looks twice at her staff —that’s what that is, not a walking stick, he should have seen that— and thinks better of it.

“Drew Ree,” he says, which he came up with a couple weeks ago and isn’t overly attached to, but he hasn’t come with anything better yet.Anyways, it isn’t like it really matters.She’s just some random weirdo who’ll forget about him in five minutes if she doesn’t call the city guard first.

The woman narrows her eyes at him, in a way that makes him feel like she’s staring right through him.

“I suppose I shouldn’t have expected honesty from a thief,” she says “I don’t believe in saying things that aren’t true and calling people what they’re not.It only makes everything more complicated, and life’s complicated enough.What is your name?”

She’s definitely weird.Still, he eyes her staff, which she’s holding like she knows how to use it.Well, she does know how to use it.The throbbing pain in his skull makes that very obvious.

“I don’t know,” he says “Why do you care?”

The woman humphs.

“I like to know the names of people I meet,” she says “I find it exceedingly rude to refer to other people by their physical traits.It reduces a person to flesh and bone, and that is highly inaccurate.Now, my name is Moyra Spinner, and I am a monk of death.Your turn.Who are you?”

He gets it now.How fast she is, how weird she is.He understands.He’s been caught.Death’s come for him.He thought he’d have more time, that he could run fast enough, but he should have known.He’s just a kid.He’s been lucky to make it this far.

“No one,” he says, because that’s true enough, and there’s no point really in lying to the Hungry One “I’m no one.Just nobody.”

The Hungry One narrows her eyes at him.She doesn’t look pleased.

“No one is nobody,” she says “By existing, you are somebody.Do you have a mind?Do you have independent thought?Do you feel?Then you are somebody.Why are you still lying on the ground?”

It’s such a sudden question out of nowhere that he doesn’t understand it at first.

“Um…”

The Hungry One rolls her eyes and reaches out a hand.Without thinking, he takes it, and she pulls him up to his feet.

“Much better,” she says “I dislike looking down on people when I talk to them.Unless you enjoy lying on the ground.Some people do.”

“Um…no,” he says.Everything is so weird right now that he might as well go along with whatever she’s talking about.It isn’t like he’ll have many more chances to do anything once he’s dead “I don’t.Like lying on the ground.”

“I thought not,” she says, nodding her head once, sharply “Now, we are on equal ground.You tried to steal from me.I hit you on the head.You don’t try and steal from me again, I won’t hit you on the head again.Is that a fair deal?”

That’s…fair enough.He did try to steal from her.And she hasn’t hit him any more, just the once.He’s never thought of the Hungry One as something that was particularly fair, but then again, what does he know?

“Yeah,” he says, looking at her, the Hungry One, more closely.She doesn’t look anything like what he imagined the Hungry One would look like, although to be honest, this is not how he ever imagined his death would go.He expected a lot more trouble and pain about it.Not a woman who knocks him down and then helps him back up while talking about names and existence and stuff like that.Certainly not someone with a name like Moyra Spinner, though who is he to question?He hasn’t even got a proper name of his own.

“Good.” she, the Hungry One, Moyra, says “Now, boy —correct me if I am wrong, presumption is a terrible habit to break— where did you learn to sneak around like that?If you had not tried to steal from me, I would not have noticed you.”

It’s all a hallucination, a strange fever-dream.She must have cracked his head open, and he’s really still lying on the ground, imagining all this in the seconds before he dies.

“I’m good at being quiet,” he says, since there isn’t much else he can say, and she has a strangely insistent manner about her that makes him want to answer “It’s easy to not be seen when no one wants to see you.”

Moyra raises her eyebrows.She looks…impressed?

“That is a very good observation,” she says “Well done.Most people think being unseen is about being stealthy and hiding well, but what they fail to understand is that perception is in the mind.You could be dressed in the most outlandish costume and causing an enormous ruckus, but if the object of your deception is not thinking about you, you will remain, essentially, invisible to their eyes.”

He nods, having nothing better to do.That sort of makes sense, in a weird way.After all, the sisters noticed him often enough when they were concerned about his behaviour.Once he started behaving how they wanted, they stopped noticing him as much.

“That was my error,” she continues “I should have known better than to dismiss your presence as merely another person on the street.Everyone is a person, and every person’s presence matters.Very good, I shall not make the same mistake again.Now.Let us discuss business.I should like to take you on as my student.”

He is definitely dead.This is too strange to be real life.

“What.”

“I said, I should like to take you on as my student,” Moyra repeats again “I am a monk of a very old tradition, much older than these new Bulbosi interlopers.There are very few of us left, and I think that is a very sad end for our ways.While there is still life left in me, I should like to train another and keep our traditions alive.”

He discreetly pinches himself, and hides a yelp.Alright!He’s not dead, unless the dead feel pain.Which they might!No one’s ever been dead and come back to describe what it’s like being dead.For all he knows, the dead might feel just as much as the living.

He hopes not.Once he’s dead, he’d like to have done with it and stay dead.

“Why-“ he stops short.Moyra tilts her head and looks at him patiently “Why me?I’m no one.I’m just someone who tried to pick your pocket.”

“Precisely,” she says “A good number of people have tried to sneak up on me in the past thirty years.Only a handful have ever gotten so close, and I trained most of them.You have talent, boy, and it’s worth a good deal more than lifting a few pennies from someone’s pockets.I can teach you to refine talent into skill.I can teach you to be so silent and quick than you could stand right over someone’s shoulder without their noticing.I can teach you to move through a whole crowd of people and never be seen —that is, _noticed_ — once.”

She has to be kidding.But he’s awake.He’s not dead.Probably.He’s probably not dead, and this is a real thing.This is a real person, a _real person,_ not the Hungry One, probably, but a _real person_ saying these things.This is a real person, saying these things and sounding completely serious about it.

“Why,” he says, too bewildered to even make it a question “Why would you do that.”

“I told you why I am making this offer,” she says, sounding a little impatient “I should like to train at least one more student in the old ways before I go to meet the Hungry One, and out of all the wide-eyed supplicants and the swaggering noble youths and those bumbling Bulbian fools that come to my door, I see the most potential in you.”

“But I’m no one,” he says helplessly, because Bulb help him, he does not know what else to say in this strange, strange, encounter he’s found himself in “I’m just—“

“I apologize for interrupting you, but I sense that we are going to keep going in circles,” she says, sharply swiping her hand through the air “You are going to tell me that you are just a child on the streets with nothing to offer anyone, and I will repeat my earlier statement that no one is nothing and no one has nothing so long as they exist in this life.I told you that I am a monk of death.Let me teach you my first lesson.Death means nothing without life, and life is nothing without death.Do you have life?Then you are not dead yet, and you have something to offer, though you may not know it yet.”

She lifts a hand to her throat, and draws out a pendant on a chain from underneath her wraps.It has been such a bizarre day and she is such a strange woman that he has no more surprise left to give.When she opens her hand to reveal the symbol of the Hungry One, he’s almost not surprised, but he’s run out of reactions to give.

“Do you know what this is?” she says.For a moment, it’s almost like being back in the Abbey, Sister Kalenea calling on him to recite his lessons.

“It’s the-“ he looks around quickly, but the street is loud and no one is paying attention to an old woman and a ragged boy “It’s the Hungry One.”

“Yes,” she says, tucking the pendant back into her cloak “If you listen to those fools in the Church, they would have you believe that the Hungry One is some active force of evil and destruction, who the great and glorious Bulb will one day defeat for all eternity, or something along the lines of that rot.”

He can still recall Sister Kalenea’s lessons on the terrible curse of the Hungry One upon the world, could probably recite parts of them if he tried hard enough.The sisters were very thorough in making sure they all understood how dreadfully wicked the Hungry One was.But he thinks better of it.

“But that’s not true?” he says.Moyra smiles.It’s a smile full of teeth and scorn.

“The Hungry One is no more an active being than the Bulb is,” she says “The Hungry One is nothing more than death.And death is nothing more than what comes to everyone in the end.Why should it need to seek out people when we shall all come to it one day?Hmm?”

It does sound a little strange when she puts it like that.Then again, the sisters had been very convincing too when they lied, and they weren’t strangers on the street.

“You don’t believe me,” Moyra says.She does not sound upset at all “Good!It means you have a brain.It would be foolish to latch onto the philosophy of someone you’ve only just met.What do you say, boy without a name?I have stated my interest in taking you as my student.The decision is yours.I do not want an unwilling pupil.”

He has reached the point in this truly unbelievable day where he’s accepted that even if he is dead or dreaming, things are happening and he might as well accept them to be happening and go along with them.This monk, this strange Moyra person who is probably not the Hungry One, but who does have some odd ideas about it, she wants to teach him.He’s tried to steal from her, and she wants to teach him.She thinks he’s somebody, and she wants to teach him.She _looks_ at him, and it’s like she sees something there, something even he can’t see, but she does.

“Why?” he says.Moyra’s smile slips away.For a moment, he’s horribly afraid that he’s done it, he’s asked too many questions, the sisters always said he asked too many questions, questioning is doubt, doubt is bad, she’s certain to take it all back now-

“Because I told you that I was a monk of death, and you looked me in the eye and showed me yourself,” she says, suddenly a good deal softer, gentler “Or at least who you believe yourself to be.It is natural to fear death.It is heroics to pretend not to.It is honesty to be yourself as you look at the end.And as I told you at the beginning.I appreciate honesty.”

There’s a moment, where she looks him in the face and he feels raw and flayed open, like a peppermint pig cut open at market and all its inner organs shown to the world.Then she gathers up the edges of her cloak, wraps herself up tight until she looks like a feeble old woman again, and turns on her heel.

“You can decide not to follow,” she calls out behind her, starting up a slow, shuffling pace that is almost certainly an act “You can keep living your life as you are, thinking that you’re nobody.Or you can come with me, and you can figure out what kind of somebody you are.It’s up to you.”

Once upon a time, there was a boy who was a cloud, but he was a lot more than that.He was quick and he was clever and he was tough, and if that weren’t enough, he was honest as it was possible to be honest.Not to say that he never lied, but he liked the truth at the heart of things, and he liked to live having known the truth rather than continue to live in the most beautiful lie in the world.

He was also very impulsive, as those young and quick types are.

Once upon a time, there was a boy who was a cloud, and he made a choice.

He steps after her, and runs headfirst into the unknown.

* * *

Once upon a time, there was a boy who was a cloud, and he was getting thoroughly trounced in martial arts practice.

To be fair, he is only a novice, but there is no fairness in life and death.He is sparring against his teacher, who is far more spry than most people of her age, and who has the benefit of many years of experience under her belt, and who does not believe in going easy on her students.

“Even after you finish your training, you will face enemies stronger than you,” Moyra says, landing a blow that stuns him where he stands and makes his eyes water “No one is invincible.You must constantly practice and seek improvement.It is a fool who ceases to learn after having won a single victory.”

He does not get the chance to meditate on this lesson, as at that moment, she slips past his guard and punches him straight between the eyes-

He comes to lying flat on his back in the grass.Moyra is standing over him, offering a hand, much like she did at their first meeting when she knocked him over the head, and much like she’s done every single time since she’s started teaching him to fight.

“You did well,” she says, pulling him up and handing him a cup of plain cola “You are more patient, your defence has improved.It took me longer to land a stunning strike on you.Once you are able to prevent any blow from landing, we shall move on to turning your opponent’s offence against them.”

He’s still slightly dazed from the hit —Moyra definitely does not believe in going easy— but he drains the cup and nods.He’s here to learn, and he means to do it well.

“Now, when you’re ready, we go again,” Moyra says, already shifting into her battle stance.He sets the cup aside, brushes past the twinging in his sore muscles, and settles into a defensive stance.

Later, after getting knocked out again —but after a whole eighteen seconds, he’s never lasted eighteen seconds before!— they retreat to the study for reading time.The house Moyra lives in is not very large, but she’s turned the large bedroom into a small library of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, all crammed full of books, with stacks and piles crowding up the floor besides.

“It is just as important to exercise the mind as it is to exercise the body.” Moyra says frequently “I do not need a large space to rest in, but my books, who are much less adaptable, do.”

There are many, many books in the study, and he’s allowed to read whatever he wants, so long as he reads something.Sometimes Moyra will recommend a book that she believes is good or helpful, but it’s his choice whether or not he wants to read it.

“I can teach you to hone your body, but I am not here to shape your mind,” is another thing she says frequently “You must learn to think for yourself.Only then can you look at yourself and find out who you are, boy without a name.”

Because he still hasn’t got one.A name, that is.He’s found a lot of names in the books he’s read, but none of them quite fit, and besides, now that he’s thinking about it, he’d like a name that’s entirely his own.Moyra says there’s no hurry, that putting a proper name to something is a serious task, and it’s better to take his time with it than settle for anything less than what’s right.

He finds that he agrees with her there.

They don’t always agree, not on everything.He thinks that she’s right about the Hungry One and the Bulb not being some great cosmic beings fighting over everyone in the world, but he also thinks that there’s more to it than just two vague forces existing out there in the universe.It’s like Moyra said, the first day they met.Death needs life and life needs death.If the Hungry One is death and the Bulb is life, aren’t they two sides of the same coin?

“The Bulbians would call that heresy,” Moyra says, raising an eyebrow.

“They have a lot of names for everything,” he says, not looking up from his book.Books aren’t as much his thing as they are Moyra’s, but some of them can be pretty interesting.This one is about the standing stones all over Candia, and how people believe spirits live there that grant magical gifts to their worshippers.The author definitely believes in the spirits.He’s even arguing that Candia’s magic —or what the sisters called _witchcraft_ — comes from them, the spirits, in the first place.

He hasn’t decided whether or not he believes him yet, but it’s an exciting thought, to imagine that magic is real, it’s out there, and that there are mystical powers in the world other than the Bulb.

After reading, it’s a light lunch, then meditation in the garden.He still finds it difficult, staying so still and quiet for so long, even though he’s had lots of practice with the sisters. _Because_ he’s had lots of practice with the sisters.It’s almost like being back at the abbey, except he’s not doing it so that the sisters will stop scolding him, he’s doing it because this is part of being a monk, and he likes all the other parts of being a monk, so he’s just got to lump it with this.

Moyra does snap at him a little at first, when he really can’t stay still and he’s wiggling around and generally causing a lot of disturbance.But she apologizes for snapping later, says that she doesn’t like it when people raise their voices at her and so she should know better than to raise her voice at him for something that’s not really important, and she won’t do it again.And she doesn’t!Even when he starts tapping his fingers or getting distracted by the raisin ants climbing over his foot.

Apologies.That’s something he’s learning can be for him too.

But meditation isn’t all bad.He gets really good at sensing things around him, from the wind in the peppermint leaves to the little pitter patter of sour patch squirrels darting across the grass to the light touch of the butter cookie flies when they brush up against his cheek.If he were inside, it wouldn’t nearly be as nice, but out here, in the garden, there’s a certain peace in the life all around.He can almost get the point of meditation.

There’s chores after that, or if there are no chores, they might go out into Dulcington to pick up food or visit a few shops.Moyra always gets caught up in the bookshop, chatting with the owner about the latest titles that have come in, and he’ll pretend he doesn’t notice when he sees one of his old friends from the streets slitting a rich merchant’s purse.

Just because he doesn’t need to steal anymore doesn’t mean he’s going to snitch anyone out.Especially not when it’s someone that he’s taught a few tricks before, and they’re doing an excellent job with them.

Accomplishment without arrogance is another thing he’s learning.It makes him proud to see people use what he’s taught them well.He even imagines that maybe, Moyra feels that way too with him too when he finally gets something right. 

Accomplishment.What a wonderful feeling.

After dinner, there’s free time to do whatever he likes.Moyra usually goes back to the study to read, of course, and he likes to go back out in the garden.He can run around to his heart’s content without disturbing anyone, practice climbing the old peppermint tree, lie flat on his belly and watch a gummy worm ooze through the dirt.But his favourite thing to do is to lie on his back and watch the sky turn pink and red and orange and yellow as the sun sets and the night falls in on deep purple and blue clouds.The moon peaks out behind the puffy wisps of cloud, and the marbled light that shines through is as peaceful as he’s ever known.

More than once, he’s fallen asleep out there, looking up at the sky.Sometimes Moyra comes out, nudges him awake to go back inside.Other times, when it’s warm enough and the clouds don’t promise rain, she lays a blanket over him in the night and he doesn’t wake until the first rays of the sun shine on his face in the morning.

It’s the most beautiful thing in the world.

And so the days and the weeks and the months pass, and he reads and he trains and he listens and he learns.He gets better at fighting, although Moyra still defeats him every time, but he’s lasting longer and longer, getting more hits in.He studies a lot about the old ways and the Hungry One and the Bulb, all the things that Moyra learned from her own teachers, the monks who studied death until it was a tool more than a dread horror.

“There were never many of us to begin with,” Moyra says in the study one day “Death is not something that many people are comfortable with thinking about.And then once the Bulbosi missionaries started coming, no one wanted to associate with us.We do not fear the Hungry One, you see, and the Bulbosi Church does not like that.Even those who do not believe in the Bulb have little problem believing their tales of the Hungry One as some sort of evil figure.”

She sounds more bitter and angry than he’s ever heard her before. 

“But it isn’t like we worship the Hungry One,” he says “Just because we can use the power of death doesn’t mean we worship it like a god.It’s like worshipping a sword, or a pen.It’s just something you use, it’s not something special you believe in.”

Moyra snorts.

“You are fortunate, boy without a name,” she says “You use your brain.Many people are not aware that they have that option.”

The compliment pleases him.He knows that he’ll never be the smartest person in the world.Definitely not as smart as Moyra, even when he’s just as old as she is.He likes to do things more than he likes to sit around and think.But he’s trying.And that’s better than not trying.

The days pass in a flurry.There’s always so much to do and so much to learn.He starts learning how to fight with weapons — blunted, of course, Moyra doesn’t go easy, but she also prefers not to have him make death’s intimate acquaintance so soon.He learns how to dodge and defend, and then how to start drawing upon the life energies in a dying body.He gets faster, stronger, better, and he’s never felt so…so _confident_ his life.

He’s learning _so much_.And he’s _good_ at it.For the first time ever, he’s _good_ at something and it doesn’t make him feel terrible _at all_.

One ordinary day, one perfectly ordinary day, he wakes up in the garden.The sky was beautiful last night, a swath of reds and pinks and purples as the sun set and the moon rose above the thick clouds, tinting them a gleaming blue.Now, in the morning air, the sun has taken over once again, and its brilliant rays colour the clouds around it a deep yellow that spreads out into the rest of the sky, turning the last of the deep night into bright morning.

He closes his eyes, and lets the feeling of the dawn brush over him as the sky turns to morning light.

When he goes into the house, Moyra is still asleep.As she’s put it many times, she’s old, and has earned the right to sleep in if she so pleases.He gets to work on breakfast, laying the table and preparing their simple fare.There’s a light-hearted feeling bubbling up inside him today, a feeling that all is right with the world and he’s exactly where he needs to be.He’s not one for whistling, but he almost feels like that’s the sort of thing he should be doing.It’s just a beautiful day.

Moyra, yawning, shuffles in a half hour later, because a lifetime of habit overcomes any personal grumblings about sleeping in.She’s right on time, the kettle’s whistling enough if he isn’t, and he fills the teapot, sending the scent of mint tea throughout the house.

“I am not old enough to be drinking tea in the morning,” Moyra grumbles like she does every morning, when she’s not awake enough yet to be polite “Wait until I’m 80, if the Hungry One hasn’t gotten me by then.”

“Of course,” he says, bringing the pot to the table “Do you want any sugar or milk?There should still be some milk left in the ice box- what’s wrong?”

Moyra is looking at him with narrowed eyes, scrutinizing him, like he’s some sort of stranger.

“Moyra?” he says, putting the pot down “What’s the matter?”

Moyra narrows her eyes even more until she’s squinting at him.

“You,” she says “Something’s changed.Something’s different about you.”

“There is?” he looks down at himself.He can’t see anything obvious, other than a few grass stains from sleeping outside all night, but that’s nothing unusual for him.

“Your hair,” she says “It’s different.”

His hair?He hasn’t cut it lately, but it doesn’t feel very much longer.Maybe one of the squirrels was nibbling at it while he was asleep.He looks at his reflection in the windowpane.

His hair isn’t a see-through white anymore.It’s pink, a light, pastel-ish kind of pink, like the puffy pink clouds in the sky on a fine day like today.It’s…nice.It’s very nice, actually.He rather likes it.

“It wasn’t like that last night,” he says.Moyra hmms.

“No, it wasn’t,” She looks him up and down “You must have found something.”

He did find a new nest of liquorice beetles in the roots of the peppermint tree last night, but he doesn’t think she’s talking about beetles.

“Hmm,” Moyra looks him up and down again “Yes.You’ve found something.I can tell.The way you stand is different.”

Is he standing differently too?He hasn’t noticed that.He doesn’t know what his hair changing colour and him standing differently has to do with finding a mysterious something.It must be one of her philosophy things, something about the self.Moyra loves to talk about that kind of stuff, that no one can see and it’s all inside in the head but that doesn’t mean it’s not real.

Now that he thinks about it that way, he does _feel_ a little different, although he couldn’t describe how.Just a feeling inside, among his general good mood, or maybe with it, that’s something so contenting and so right.

“Hmm,” Moyra says again, finally looking away from him “It will come up sooner or later.No use standing around until it does.Yes, sugar.If I am to have tea at my age, I will have it with sugar.”

Later that morning, he lands a real hit on Moyra during sparring practice.

Of course, he’s flat on his back twelve seconds later, but he still landed a blow on her that she didn’t let him land!Moyra hmms again, but gives him an approving look.In their next round, he does it again, ducks under her guard and catches her in the side.And it takes eighteen seconds for her to knock him out after that.

“Very good,” Moyra says, as she helps him back to his feet “That’s what I like to see more of.”

The feeling of accomplishment bubbles up inside him until he feels light as a balloon and just as able to float up and off into the sky.

He spends study time with a book about the Ramsian Doctrine, which is very disturbing and yet not very surprising from the Bulbians.The sisters certainly made a big fuss about who was good and who was bad.It makes sense that someone in the Church could see things this way, that there were bad people who would be destroyed one day while all the good people were saved.The sisters had thought he was a bad person, bad from birth.He doesn’t have to guess to know that if they were sorting people this way, he would definitely be _junk food_.

He finds that he does not mind in the slightest.He is long past the point where he cares what the sisters think of him, what anyone thinks of him.

Later, they meditate in the garden, and it’s not so bad this time.It feels like peace, like falling asleep under the open sky, but still aware, still feeling everything around him, like a waking dream.He’s the little potato chipmunk, disappearing into the shrubbery with its cheeks full of peppermint acorns.He’s the chocolate brown cricket hopping between the blades of purple and pink grass that rustle gently as it passes.He’s even the stately old peppermint tree, standing tall and strong but always moving, teeming with the life of the creatures it shelters, swaying gently with the passing of a breeze.

He’s the wind in the sky and the clouds on the wind and a thought in the air.

When he opens his eyes again, Moyra is looking at him.Patient, knowing, but silent.She’s waiting, for him. 

“My name is Cumulous,” he says, and that’s all.No big moment, no deep thoughts.Not even a proper revelation.Just a name, the right name, for something he already knows, has maybe known all along.

“Cumulous,” Moyra repeats “Very good.Now, Cumulous, help an old woman stand up.You’re young, but my bones can’t take this sitting around for too long.”

He stands up, offers his hand, and is only a little surprised when she springs up without anyhelp and aims a flurry of blows at him.He barely dodges them in time, automatically settling into a defensive stance.Moyra cackles.

“Good!” she says, positioning herself for combat “Only a fool gives warning before they attack.Now show me what you’ve learned.”

He lasts a whole thirty six seconds, which is a record, and he even manages to avoid getting hit for the first twelve seconds of it.At the end, Moyra doesn’t even knock him out, just puts her fists down and steps back.

“You have learned a lot,” she says, in that blunt way of hers “Still too impulsive on the attack, but that’s youth.Yes, you have learned from me well.What lacks now is experience.No way for me to teach that.That’ll have to be all you, boy.”

With that cryptic statement, she turns on her heel and heads back into the house.

“I shall need to go into town tomorrow, so the laundry must be done today,” she says over her shoulder “Come along, Cumulous.I need your young, strong muscles to wring out the linens for me.”

It’s two weeks later when a knock on the door comes while they’re in the study.He’s reading a book written by an archaeologist who dug up an ancient Sucrosian ritual site, and Moyra is pretending that she’s not reading a mystery novel about a murder in a locked room.Moyra looks up from her book and gestures at him.

“Go get the door if you will, Cumulous,” she says “She can come through to here, she appreciates a good library.”

He puts down his book and pads out of the room, curious about the sudden visitor.They don’t get a lot of visitors, usually.Once or twice, a monk drops by that Moyra knows, and there have been a few scholars come by to debate something with her, but that’s never been any of his business, and he’s not one to pry.From the sound of it, it’s another scholar come to visit, so it won’t have anything to do with him-

He opens the door.

His first thought is that she looks very young to be a scholar, much younger than the other scholars who have come by in the past.She can’t be older than maybe twenty or so.Then again, he’s very young to be a monk, so who’s he to say?She looks scholarly enough, with round glasses and stately blue robes and her hair done up in a tidy bun.Maybe she’s a student. 

His second thought is that she looks familiar somehow, and that he’s seen her face somewhere before.Not someone on the street, he doesn’t feel like she’s the sort of person that walks through Dulcington’s streets a lot.But there’s something familiar about her, like a face from a dream, and he just can’t tell what.

His third thought, and he’s not proud that it took him this long to notice this, is that she’s wearing a crown on her head.A tiara —Moyra likes precision of language— of blue and purple, set with a gem, a royal tiara fit for a princess.

Princess.

A princess whose polite expression is frozen on her face, and she’s staring at him with her mouth slightly open, her head just tilted to one side, her eyes looking straight at him and yet distant at the same time. 

He remembers, as if through a great fog, a history class in the abbey.Sister Kalenea talking about the royal family, the king and his Fructeran queen, their children, the princesses and the prince.The heir, the future queen, the Princess Rococoa.The blessed Princess Citrina, the sisters had talked a lot about her.A miracle worker, even from an early age, touched by the Bulb.If anyone were to redeem the pagans of House Rocks, it would surely be her.The younger children, the Princess Sapphria and Prince Amethar, names on a genealogy.Fourth and fifth in line for the throne, there were more important members of the royal family.

And Lazuli.The one they whispered was a witch, a pagan.As heathen as the Princess Citrina was holy, dabbling in witchcraft and fortune telling, a scholar of wicked and depraved magics.

She doesn’t look like a witch to him, or an evil person.She looks an academic, although much more neat and put together than the ink-stained scholars that Moyra is friends with.She looks-

“Well?” Moyra’s voice comes from inside, shaking the both of them out of their silent staring “Are you both going to come in, or shall we talk on the doorstep?I don’t like conversations on doorsteps, they rarely end well.Let her in, will you, Cumulous?”

He steps aside automatically, and lets the Princess Lazuli in.

He can feel her gaze burning into the back of his skull as he leads her to the study, thinking everything and nothing.What is she doing here?Why is she here?Why is _she_ here?He doesn’t look at her, even though she’s looking at him.It’s unnerving.When Moyra looks at him, it’s like she’s looking at something inside him, something good and valuable and worthy.When the princess looks at him, it’s like she sees everything, all of him, every hidden crook and cranny, every good and every bad thing, and she knows it all.

Honestly, it makes him want to run away and hide, like he’s a thief on the street again and she’s an angry farmer’s wife.

He doesn’t run.He stills himself, and he walks, purposeful and too calm, through the house.

Moyra’s put away her mystery novel when he re-enters the study, holding the door open for the Princess Lazuli.The princess spares him another look as she sits down in his usual chair, as though she hasn’t been staring a hole through his skull the entire time.He starts to leave, whatever business they’ve got can’t involve him, and Moyra gives a loud harumph.

“You should stay,” she says “You’ll be very interested in what her highness has to say, if I do not mistake your reading list.”

“I told you,” the princess says, sounding very fond and not in the least princess-like “‘Mage’ is fine.Anyways, there’s no need for official titles in a private meeting between fellow scholars.”

“I hear it’s ‘archmage’ soon,” Moyra says “Unless your brewing project has gone very wrong indeed.”

“No, no, everything is progressing as it should,” the princess says, taking on the tone that Moyra sometimes gets when she starts talking about high matters of philosophy and cosmology “It’s going just as my calculations predicted.And before you say anything, yes, I’m still being careful.Rococoa still gives me grief about that explosion three years ago.”

“As well she should,” Moyra says sternly “Spell damage is no joke, and you are too talented a mage to lose to carelessness and overconfidence.”

The princess doesn’t say anything, but her blue cheeks darken a little and there’s a smile playing on her lips.

“Now,” Moyra says “To business.I am far too old for whatever grand scheme you want me to take part in now.I am sixty five years old, and I have earned my retirement in peace with my books.I am not about to go traipsing up down the length and breadth of the country, fighting the Bulbosi Church and whatever else you’ve set yourself against.”

“But the Order needs someone like you,” the princess leans forward in her seat “Master Kit’s the most senior monk we have, and he says he can’t do it without you.”

“He exaggerates, he always has,” Moyra waves a hand dismissively “A good student, but he had an over-fondness for words.I remember when he was a young whippersnapper desperately trying to impress the baker’s daughter. _Master_ indeed.I suppose you’re going to tell me he’s a teacher now, with a cohort of bright young students.Look at me!I’ve taught a fair few in my day, never had them call me master or mistress.Do I, Cumulous?”

He starts at his name.The princess turns her head and looks at him.

“N-no,” he says “You don’t like calling people what they’re not, and you’re not a mistress of anyone.”

“Precisely,” Moyra says “Look at Cumulous here!He’s been listening to me. _Master Kit_ needs to stop with the word play and get some confidence.He was a very capable student, or else I wouldn’t have kept him on.If he wants to commit himself to this business, this order you’re starting up, he is perfectly equipped to do so, unless he’s doubting the quality of my instruction now.”

“No one is doubting that you’re a good teacher,” the princess says, with a smile in her voice “Half the Order so far are your old students.”

“All the more reason, then!” Moyra says “Someone should doubt me.Your order isn’t my cult.They should think for themselves, or none of them have learned anything!It’s a good thing I’m not joining it, or they’d never get anything done without pestering me day and night.”

“You raise a valid point,” the princess says, and sighs a little “I will admit that it is frustrating when people refuse to do their own thinking and rely solely on your guidance.”

“Yes,” Moyra says “Which is why you should take Cumulous here into your Order instead of me.He’s a good lad, and a good monk, and he’s the rare sort who’s got the gumption to act but uses his brain about it too.You can’t ask for much more than that.”

His jaw drops.He stares past at the princess, at Moyra, who looks at him with something in her eye, a certain look there.Fondness and firmness and _pride_ , that’s pride there, looking at him.She’s _proud_ of him.

“ _Me?_ ” he says, and his voice comes out smaller and weaker than he thought it would.

“Yes, you!” she says “You’ve been a very good student to train.I couldn’t have asked for a finer last student.And I could teach you more theory, more philosophy, more forms and moves, but that’s no use to you, stuck in this little house with me.I told you that what you need now is experience, and you aren’t going to get that, doing nothing but hanging around here.I’ve had the easy job of getting you started.Now you’ve got the much more difficult and much more satisfying job of living your life.”

“But-“ he has to stop because there’s something in his throat that he can’t tell if it’s sadness or happiness or both “You want me to do this?”

“I _think_ it would be very good for you, if her highness has no objection,” Moyra nods at the princess “Of course, you have to make the decision yourself.If you want to stay here, with me, you can do that.It has been good to have a student again, and I find your company pleasing.But you must choose.You are young, you should not spend your entire life simply letting things happen to you.It is not enough to simply _be_ in the world _._ You must _live_ in it as well _._ ”

“No, I have no objections,” the princess says quietly.She’s looking at him again, with those keen eyes of hers “If Moyra Spinner says that you’re a good monk, I believe her.She has good judgement.”

“Hmmph,” Moyra’s eyes twinkle with something in the light that he thinks might be tears, but she doesn’t cry “What do you think, Cumulous?Are you going to stay here with me, or are you going to go along with whatever scheme her highness has devised now?”

“I-“ he looks away from Moyra because he feels tears building up in his eyes and he thinks that if he keeps looking at her, then he will be the one that starts crying.He clears his throats, makes himself look at the princess “What…what are you doing?What is the order you’re talking about?…Your highness.”

The princess takes a deep breath.

“What do you know about the magic of Candia?” she says.Oh.Oh!But he’s been reading about this.It’s hard to figure out whether or not the books are telling the truth sometimes, because a lot of them were written by Bulbians who didn’t like witches and witchcraft.But he knows that there’s always been spirits and magic in Candia, long before the Church came here, long before it was even Candia, when the strange and mythical Sucrosians lived here.He knows that there are supposed to be standing stones all over Candia, where the spirits lived.He’s always been curious to see one, but the one in the middle of Dulcington isn’t there anymore.The Bulbian missionaries destroyed it years ago to build their cathedral.

“It’s real,” he says, slowly at first, then faster and faster “The Church doesn’t like it, they call it witchcraft, but there’s always been magic in Candia.There are spirits too, hundreds of them, in everything, and we used to worship them at the standing stones and they would grant gifts of magic in return, but people stopped doing that after the Church came.Or they say they stopped doing it, but they’re still doing it in secret.”

“Not as many as there used to be, but there’s almost certainly people who still follow the old ways,” the princess says.She sounds surprised, excited, and her words are coming out less royal sounding, more like an ordinary person’s “I know for a fact that my uncle Joren still very much practices the old traditions, and one of his wives is a priestess of the Sweetening Path.It isn’t all lost, not yet.”

“You mean-“ he forgets that he’s talking to a princess, to royalty, to one of the daughters of the king “But if there are people who still use Candian magic, where are they?Why don’t they get together and fight back against the Church?Stop them persecuting people as witches and destroying all the ancient sites.”

“But that’s it,” the princess says, leaping up from her seat “That’s exactly it.That’s what the Order of the Spinning Star is for.To protect Candia’s magic, and the kingdom with it, from the Church.I can’t explain it all right now, but the magic here, it’s tied into the land and the land is tied to it.Destroy one, and the other becomes undone.”

“Protect Candia, protect the magic.”

“ _Exactly._ ”

Whatever was the lump in his throat is gone.Actually, he’s almost breathless, like he’s just run ten laps around the garden.The princess’ eyes are shining.Moyra coughs.

“Sounds like you two are getting along just fine,” she says, her voice a little gruffer than it usually is “Well, what do you say, Cumulous?This Order of the Spinning Star.Are you interested?”

He…is.Very much so, he is.He’s come across so many stories, from the sisters in the abbey to all the books he’s read now, about the ancient history of Candia.The sisters hadn’t taught much that was true, calling it all witchcraft and paganism.The books, too, even if they weren’t as devout as the sisters, said that it was all over and done with, ancient practices of a bygone, primitive people.

But there are people who still follow.People who still believe.They aren’t gone, they aren’t ancient, they’re alive and now.And they might not be, if the Church keeps on burning and hanging them all.

“I want to help,” he says, looking at the princess “If you’ll have me.”

The princess smiles again.She has a nice smile, a real one, that’s also full of teeth and determination.

“I’ll take any willing person,” she says, holding out her hand “Lazuli Rocks, mage and princess of Candia.Future archmage, as soon as I perfect my divinatory compound.Waiting for dreams and looking into enchanted orbs seems a very imprecise method of divination to me.I’m working on creating a potion —or alchemical substance, as I must call it when the Bulbians are around— that turns the divinatory process into something that’s much more reliable and manageable.Then I’ll be a full archmage, and I’ll be able to look out, quite literally, for Candia’s future.”

That…is a lot of words at once that he did not entirely understand.He’s very interested in magic, of course he is, but the technical details behind it are a bit of blur.But she sounds excited about it, and her excitement is very easy to share, even inspiring, although he does not understand half of what she’s talking about.

“Oh, go on, the two of you,” Moyra says, flapping a hand at them “I can tell you two have a lot to talk about.Your youthful excitement is making me feel very old.”

“You’ve been complaining about being old for as long as I’ve known you,” Lazuli Rocks, future archmage, says saucily.He didn’t know that princesses could be saucy. “I do believe you just like people believing you’re old so that they completely underestimate you.”

Moyra winks at him.

“It worked well enough, didn’t it?” she says “I got myself a good student out of it.And about that.Come here, Cumulous.I have something for you before you go haring off against the Church.”

She beckons him closer, and takes out a small, bound journal from her pocket.

“Here,” she says, handing it to him.He looks at it.It is very old and worn and plain, but still in good shape.He flips it open, and sees pages and pages of Moyra’s sharp, spiky writing, punctuated by occasional sketches of martial forms and body diagrams.Things she’s learned, how to fight, how to touch upon death, how to be a monk.

“This is yours,” he says dumbly, tracing the words lightly with his fingers.

“Now it is yours,” Moyra says, leaning back into her chair “You’ve still got a lot to learn, and you will find Kit and the others good teachers.But when you surpass them, as I know you will, this old book will help you keep learning until you’re as old and grey as I am.No shortcuts, I learned all this the hard way, and you’ll have to as well.But a little helping hand now and then doesn’t hurt.”

He holds the journal tightly to his chest, and nods.He doesn’t trust himself to speak.Moyra looks at him, and he sees that pride there again, that accomplishment.

“You are a good student, Cumulous, and a good person,” she says “It has brought me great satisfaction to be your teacher, and to see you realize who you are as a person.And if you ever want to visit and tell me what heretical crusades you’ve be on, I will be pleased to have your company.Now, one more lesson for the time being, until we meet again.Are you listening?”

He nods again.Moyra leans in close, her eyes shining.

“Don’t ever be ashamed to cry,” she says “Crying is just a way to show you care, and there’s nothing more to life than people choosing to care.”

So he does. 

Once upon a time, there was a boy who was a cloud, and he had a name.His name was Cumulous, and he was a monk.He had trained under a forthright old teacher who was tougher than any cookie on the outside and softer than any marshmallow on the inside.She had taught him quite a lot of things, but the most important thing she’d ever taught him was not something that could be taught.It was to do with knowing himself, and being himself, and living as himself and for himself.

“Where are we going?”

“To Castle Candy.”

Once upon a time, there was a boy who was a cloud, and he was crying.

He steps into the princess’ carriage, and something new begins.

* * *

Once upon a time, there was a boy who was a cloud, and he was facing the most intense scrutiny of his life.

Princess Lazuli Rocks, mage of Candia, second in line to the throne of the kingdom, does not say anything the entire carriage ride to the castle.There are the tart guards marching on either side of the carriage, and the driver in front, and people always talk.He doesn’t know what they thought of a crying boy dressed like a monk getting into the royal carriage with the princess, but from the short time since he’s met her, he’s gotten the feeling that Princess Lazuli Rocks is not an ordinary princess.

For one thing, he doesn’t imagine that most princesses are future archmages passionately invested in going toe to toe with the Bulbosi Church.

As they rumble up the path to the great walls of the castle, he can’t help but look out at the window at the looming fortress.Great towers of candy rock stand tall and proud, the crest of House Rocks hanging proudly in great banners the size of a house.On every turret, the flag of Candia flutters in the wind, bright and bold.

It is…big.

For a moment, he has the wild thought of what it must be like to grow up here.Endless vast halls of paintings and statues, the floor coloured a dozen hues by the sunlight streaming in through the stained glass windows.Knights in gleaming suits of armour standing at attention in the hallways, nobles in their finery, their silks and their satins and all their precious gems, whispering in the corridors.Going to sleep every night, warm and full, surrounded by strong, secure walls and a constant guard to keep any danger anyway.

What a grand place.

What a very lonely place.

What is he thinking?Castles are for noble people, not the likes of him.He knows who he is, he’s accepted who he is.He is Cumulous, a simple monk, or a monk-in-training, and monks do not belong in royal halls.He’s also a bastard, and that doesn’t bother him nearly as much as it did before, but he knows there are rules about bastards.One of which is that respectable people do not associate with them if they can help it, because that will somehow damage their reputation, and they find reputations to be very important things.

Personally, he finds that extremely ridiculous, and that’s not just him speaking as a bastard.The idea that reputations are so important and so fragile that they can be damaged just by meeting someone who couldn’t help how they were born.He gets why Moyra dislikes wordplay, and the complicated rules it makes. 

But like it or not, those _are_ the rules, and they aren’t the institutions of the Church that he’s interested in fighting.Still, just to be safe, he’s not mentioning the bastard thing to the princess anytime soon.It might be dishonest, but she’s still a princess.He can’t imagine that associating with a bastard would be very good for her reputation.

Princess Lazuli does not say anything as they get out of the carriage, other than to thank the driver and the guards.She doesn’t say anything as she leads him through a plain looking door to the side, up several flights of stairs and along many corridors of unadorned stone.They encounter no one, and he guesses that these must be some kind of servants’ passageways, so that they can move unseen by the nobles.

He wonders, briefly, if his mother walked along these halls, and what she must have felt, so close and yet so far from the grand folks who lived just on the other side of the wall.Or maybe not so far after all.

Finally, after a long climb up a winding flight of stairs, they arrive at a solid wooden door with an ornate lock on it.Princess Lazuli takes out a key from a pocket and, unlocking the door, strides in.Inside is a circular room absolutely covered in books.Tall shelves packed with books that spill over onto the floor, the tables set up in the middle of the room, even the simple bed in the alcove beside one of the shelves. 

On the tables, there are clear vials full of different coloured liquids, some of them steaming, and a whole variety of instruments that he can’t begin to guess their purpose.He guesses that they must have something to do with the four or five different cauldrons scattered across the tables.Potions, or _alchemy_ , the Church would call it, if they wouldn’t call it witchcraft.

Whatever it is, it’s beyond him, but it looks pretty cool.It takes all of his willpower not to reach out and touch one.He has a strong feeling that it wouldn’t be wise.

“Well!” Princess Lazuli says, shutting the door firmly behind him “Here we are.I’m sorry about the mess, but I thought it was better to converse here in my laboratory rather than my office.My office is public, you see, whereas everyone knows not to disturb me here except in the gravest emergencies.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that.It’s this place.Castle Candy.For the first time in a long time, he feels small, and insignificant.

“Of course, that doesn’t stop my _dear_ siblings from trying,” Princess Lazuli says, moving over to one of the cauldrons and inspecting its contents “Hmm, a few more hours, I think.Rococoa’s alright, and Citrina doesn’t entirely approve so she’s never up here, but Sapphria and Amethar like to make a game of trying to break in and see what I’m doing.I can’t tell you how many sensitive experiments they’ve ruined.Fortunately, Sapphria’s found politics lately, and without her, Amethar hasn’t got a chance of getting in here.Do you have siblings?”

He’s starting to see why she and Moyra are friends.If Princess Lazuli is freer with her words than Moyra, she still has a way of coming up with disconcerting questions out of nowhere.

“Um,” he trips over his own tongue “N-no.I don’t.”

Princess Lazuli hums, and moves over to another cauldron.

“Your name is Cumulous?” she says “Do you have another?A surname, I mean.”

Not since the abbey, where the sisters had given them all surnames, silly things after virtues and blessings of the Church.No one had liked them, and it never came up anyways, since the sisters always called them by their first names.He hasn’t thought about his in years, and anyways, if he needs one, he certainly won’t go with anything the sisters gave him.

“No,” he says again “I…didn’t know my parents.They…weren’t around.”

“I’m sorry,” Princess Lazuli says, and the sudden honesty and sincerity of feeling in that statement catches him completely by surprise.She means it.She really means it, she is sorry.Why does she feel sorry about it?She doesn’t have anything to do with it.Well.She didn’t have any active part in it.She looks up at him from the cauldron, and her face is all serious earnestness.

“There’s no need,” he says, feeling a little uncomfortable at her expression “It isn’t important.”

Anymore, not any more.There had been a time when-Well, it doesn’t bother him anymore.

“Still,” Princess Lazuli’s face is sad and soft, and for some reason, the way she looks at him makes the hairs on his skin stand straight up “It isn’t fair, what happened to you.Everyone should have a family, no matter where they come from or…or how they were born.”

The floor falls out from under his feet, or it feels like it.

She knows.She hasn’t said it in so many words, but she _knows_.How does she know, Moyra can’t have told her because he never told Moyra.The sisters?But they thought she was a witch, they would never talk to her if they could help it.She knows, she knows, she knows-

“How?” is all he can whisper, his mouth dry and his head in a fog “How do you- how?”

“I saw it,” she says, and her voice, though quiet, seems to echo around the room, around his skull “The moment I saw you.It happens, sometimes.I can’t control it, not yet.Sometimes, I look at the people around me, and I see flashes.What was, what is, what could be, what will not.I see things they’ve hidden from everyone, and hear words they’ll never say to another living soul.It’s terrible and it’s violating and I never asked for this, but I’m working on it, I’m trying to control it, and I’m so close, but…I’m sorry.That was inconsiderate of me.”

The world is spinning beneath his feet and he is spinning in the opposite direction.It takes everything, everything Moyra has ever taught him, to find the still within himself, the peace, the calm, the will, and not collapse where he stands. 

“You saw…” he manages to get out, through a tongue that feels heavier than stone “Who-Do you know…” 

Princess Lazuli lowers her eyes.

“I can only see what you’ve seen and what you might see,” she says “Not anything else.I don’t know who she is.I could find out, if you’d like, but I don’t know who would remember her.Especially if she left quietly, or in disgrace.They wouldn’t like to speak of it.”

There’s a deafening silence.

“I know,” she says, in an even quieter voice that still resounds, or maybe that’s just him “But even if I hadn’t seen it, I would have suspected something.No one could ever have told you this, but there is a resemblance, if you know to look for it.I saw it at Moyra’s.Something in the lines of your face.At the very least, some distant relative.Families like ours, they’re large and full of secrets.”

Families like ours.Families like _ours_.He can’t even begin to process that.

“What are you going to do?” he says, slowly, as though he were swimming through a sea of molasses “If anyone finds out-“

“The only shame is on them, for thinking that someone can be at fault for something they had no control over,” Princess Lazuli says sharply, and then sighs “But you’re right.With how things are right now, the culture at court, this could never stand.It would destabilize the whole kingdom.All his enemies would have a field day, and that would be the end of him.No, you’re right.It must remain a secret.”

The lump is threatening to rise in his throat again.He’d thought- never mind what he’d thought.Anyways, there would be no joining the Order now.Moyra would be disappointed, and he’d have to explain why he never told her the truth, and she’d be doubly disappointed in him, after she’d been so proud too.She wouldn’t be proud, not after this.

“I suppose the distant relative route is the one to take here,” Princess Lazuli says, sounding thoughtful “Everyone knows that great-grandfather had many consorts, I’m sure we can slip you in there as a distant cousin or something.No one bothers tracking that part of the family tree too closely, and the Church likes to pretend that they don’t exist.But everyone knows that they’re still part of House Rocks, even if we don’t talk about the details.Yes, I think a distant cousin will be very suitable.What do you think?”

He blinks.He blinks again.Princess Lazuli is still looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to answer.

“I…what?” he says stupidly.

“Distant cousin,” she repeats “Of course, if the world was fair, you’d have a proper place, but at least you can still be family.Even if we haven’t been a very good one so far.That is, if you want to.I understand if this is too painful, and you would rather not.But you can be, if you wish.This has no bearing on your place in the Order, by the way.Moyra says that you’re a good monk, and I would have you in the Order regardless of what name you go by.That offer is not rescinded.This is personal.Family business.”

The words that she’s saying, that are coming out of her mouth —and he can see them coming out of her mouth, hear them being said— they’re amazing words, terrible words, words he’d never expected to hear, never dreamed to hear.It’s ridiculous as can be.A “distant cousin?”“Family?”That’s the point of bastards.They haven’t got a rightful one.

He doesn’t need a family.He’s never wanted a family.Alright, yes, maybe he’s thought about what it would be _like_ to have a family of his own, but he doesn’t want one _now._ He’s a monk and he has a mission and he doesn’t need the…the _distraction_ of a family.Especially not this particular one. 

He doesn’t need a family.He doesn’t want one.He doesn’t need a title, or a genealogy, or evenings around the fireplace.He’s always been on the outside looking in, he was alone until he decided to pickpocket the wrong monk.He’s gotten used to it, he-

“Why?”

Princess Lazuli, the _princess_ , the king’s daughter, she looks at him with more kindness than he’s ever seen in his life.

“Because,” she says “Everyone should belong somewhere.And I can’t change what’s happened, but I can do something right now.You don’t have to decide right away.I realize that this must be very overwhelming.Sapphria is always telling me that I have to be careful how much I say and when.She’s very good at talking to people, even if she’s less good at staying out of my laboratory.I’m sorry.I talk a lot when I’m nervous.I’m working on that.”

He…can’t.He can’t deal with any of this right now.She, the princess, Lazuli, she seems earnest enough.Nice enough, genuine enough, and he can’t even begin to work through _that_ right now, what it means that she’s being completely serious about this.She hardly knows him, although if what she’s saying is true —and she doesn’t seem like someone’s who’s a liar,— she’s already seen enough. 

He just…it’s too much, right now.He’s only just said goodbye to Moyra, he can’t deal with all this.The Order.That’s it.He’s here because of the Order, and that’s that. 

“Who-“ his voice sounds weak, raspy, to his ears, and he clears his throat “Who else is in the Order.The Order of the Spinning Star?”

It’s rudeness, in the extreme, especially since she’s so kind and earnest and this isn’t what she asked at all.But she only nods, once, too understanding, and she steps back and picks up a book from a haphazard stack piled on top of a chair.

“Here,” she says, taking out a slip of paper from inside, and handing it to him “We don’t have very many yet.Mostly scholars, a half dozen warrior monks, a handful of Bulbian deserters.I believe you’re the youngest right now, although I’m hopeful that we’ll be able to recruit other, younger monks eventually.People are just too afraid to openly express their interest in magic, which makes it difficult to find them.”

He takes the list.He doesn’t know anyone, of course he doesn’t, although there’s a couple names he vaguely recalls from Moyra having mentioned them once or twice, old students of hers or a scholarly correspondent.Master Kit, that’s who she and Princess Lazuli were talking about, it looks like he’s in charge. 

“What is the plan?” he says, looking down at the paper so he doesn’t have to look at her kind, well-meaning face “How…how is this going to work?”

“Well,” Princess Lazuli takes a deep breath “I have some ideas.”

That is, as he finds out, highly inaccurate.Princess Lazuli Rocks does not have some ideas.She has many, many ideas.He wouldn’t say that any of them are exactly impossible, because as part of coming to terms with who he is, he’s accepted that impossible things happen around him all the time.Some of them are even partly possible, with a very large imagination and twice that in hard work and effort.

He starts learning, here and now, that if anyone has the vision and the ability to make the impossible happen, it would be Princess Lazuli.

“Just Lazuli, please, there’s no need for formality in a private conversation.”

Lazuli, then.He gets it.The importance of being called by one’s name. 

He meets the rest of the Order in short order.They’re all very welcoming, even if they’re all a lot older than him.Lazuli is right, there aren’t very many of them, but they all have the same excitement that she has about their mission.And they’re good people, all of them, even though they have their own eccentricities, and Moyra is right.Master Kit —who quickly assures everyone that they can call him ‘brother,’ he’s only in charge administratively— is a good teacher, no matter how much he likes to talk.

Actually, he suspects that just like Moyra pretends to be older and frailer than she is, Brother Kit likes to talk and be dramatic just so that people will underestimate him.He can deal a mean flurry of blows with his staff even as he’s chattering away with a flurry of words.

He isn’t a full monk, not right away, although he’s learned so much from Moyra that Brother Kit and the council say he’s well on his way.He takes his first vows, pledging himself to the Order and its mission, committing himself to the way of the Hungry One as a warrior monk one day.There aren’t very many warrior monks, it’s a very demanding tradition, but it’s perfect for him.He was never very good at sitting still for a long time in research and study, even if he doesn’t really mind books.He knows who he is, and he is good at running and fighting and doing, which is exactly what he needs to be good at.

He goes on his first mission eventually.It’s nothing big, just investigating reports of a spirit that’s been causing trouble on one of the passes in the Great Stone Candy Mountains.Shouldn’t be very dangerous at all, except for wild animals and the like.He’s accompanying Brother Bassett, a cheerful jelly man, who’s now joined their Order after getting kicked out of his Bulbian monastery for heretical questioning.He’s learned how to draw on the Bulb for healing power, and he’s actually quite a nice fellow who doesn’t bear a grudge against anyone, not even his old monastery.

“They believe what they believe, and who am I to force them to do otherwise?” Brother Bassett says over the campfire one night “No one can do that.Anyways, that’s all done with.Life’s too short to keep dwelling on the past.”

Life is too short.They arrive at the pass, and they find that the reports are true.There is a spirit.A mountain spirit, and it’s angry.Some bandits have taken over its shrine in the mountains, desecrated it, and it is unleashing its anger on anyone who passes by.

Brother Bassett decides to confront the bandits.He’s sure that if they use reason, they’ll be able to convince the bandits that it’s in their best interests to find another occupation.

Life is too short.They find the bandits alright.He can tell at once that these are not bandits of opportunity.They’re too well armed, too organized.These aren’t poor peasants turned to banditry for survival.They’re proper marauders.

The fight, when it comes, is lethal.The bandits aren’t in a merciful mood.Brother Bassett goes down almost immediately, when they put three crossbow bolts and a sword blade into his body.The bandits laugh, and turn their attention to him.

He doesn’t think about Brother Bassett, lying there on the cold mountain stone, jelly oozing out of his body.He doesn’t think about the taunts and the jeers around him, the gleaming blades and heavy clubs eager to find their mark on him.

He thinks about Moyra’s garden, and about calm, and about peace.

He breathes.In.Out.

They converge.

He kills for the first time, and when that doesn’t scare them off, the second, and the third.On the last, he places his hand on the dying woman’s cheek and captures her life essence as it passes.He feels it flow into his own body, soothing his wounds, lending strength to his limbs.

The remaining bandits shriek, drop their weapons, and run off into the night.

He drops down beside Brother Bassett, but he knows that he’s already dead.His face is relaxed in death, his mouth still slightly open from his little o! of surprise when the first shaft went in, his eyes lifeless but still soft.In his hand, he still clutches the symbol of the Bulb, a fleeting moment of comfort as the Hungry One approached.

The ground here is too hard to dig, so he builds a mound over him with rocks and murmurs a prayer of mourning that the sisters taught him long ago.If there is a life past the Hungry One’s maw, he hopes that Brother Bassett finds it peaceful and comforting.He drags the bandits out of the shrine, and leaves them for the mountain and the carrion birds.He should be kinder, they were lives too, but he can’t find it in himself.He cleans up the shrine as best as he can, repairs the cracked altar, lays an offering of food from his rations.Hopefully the spirit will find it acceptable. 

It isn’t until he finally leaves the mountain, several days later, that he retches until his stomach is empty and only bile spills onto the ground.

He doesn’t go on any more missions for a long while.They mourn Brother Bassettback at the monastery, and everyone tells him that it wasn’t his fault, they were outnumbered, no one expected them to have to fight, it’s a miracle he wasn’t killed as well.He knows all this.He knows it.He’s fine.He’s ready to go on another mission.

“You’re not ready,” Brother Kit says plainly for once, the third time he asks “Cumulous, I understand.The same thing happened to me the first time I killed someone.It’s a heavy responsibility, taking a life.After, all I wanted was to go out again, run away from everything I was feeling.But that isn’t right.It’s no bad thing, to feel what you feel you right now.It means you understand the value of a life, and how precious it is.”

He remembers Moyra’s last lesson.

He cries for three days.

A couple weeks later, Lazuli comes to the monastery.She doesn’t visit often, too busy with royal duties and other projects, although she writes a lot.Usually letting them know about trouble with the spirits, or asking the scholar monks for help with research into Candia’s magic.She writes him too, little notes asking how he is, or talking about her latest projects, or just something interesting she read in a book that she thinks he’ll be interested in.

No one’s ever written to him before.It’s a strange kind of nice.He writes back to her, nothing long or fancy, but it’s polite to write back to people when they’re bothering to write to you.Nothing special, just thanking her for the book recommendation or asking after her work.She has a lot of work all the time, he doesn’t know how she manages all of it with only so many hours a day.Then again, it is Lazuli.The impossible has a habit of becoming possible around her.

He’s going through staff forms in the courtyard when she finds him.She’s got on a fine purple collar over her robes, like a senior scholar, and he remembers from her last note that she finished her divination potion, she’s a full archmage now.He’s finishing up the final form as she approaches, and he returns her wave balanced on top of the staff.

“Hello Cumulous,” Lazuli says, looking up at him and shading her eyes “Impressive balance.How do you manage it?”

“It’s just about weight, and finding the centre,” he says, alighting down from the staff and landing on his feet before her “Archmage Lazuli.Congratulations.”

Lazuli smiles, and her cheeks turn a dark blue.

“Thank you,” she says “My compound was a great success.It is such a relief to be able to control my visions at least a little.Now the challenge is calculating the probability of possible futures, and the threads that control them.I believe I may be able to create an even more refined version that winnows out the most improbable scenarios to focus on the most probable futures, but there is still much more research to do.I hear you went on a mission recently?”

“Yes,” he says.He’s getting used to this now, the way she leaps from topic to topic “Some bandits desecrated a shrine.But they’re gone now, and I restored it as much as I could.Hopefully there won’t be any more trouble there.”

Lazuli nods.There’s something about the look on her face that makes him think she knows about Brother Bassett, though of course she would know, Brother Kit would have told her about it.For a moment, she looks like she wants to say something about it, but then she smiles instead, a small flicker of the lips, and sighs loudly.

“According to my research, spirits can be tempestuous at the best of times,” she says “It’s hard to predict what will or will not please them.But I would estimate that if this particular spirit does start causing trouble again, it won’t be because of your efforts.You’ve done it a great service, and even chaotic spirits can recognize that.”

“Thank you,” he says, taking it for what it is.He appreciates it, that she doesn’t try and talk about what happened.He’s repeated it enough times, for the brothers and sisters, in his official report, at night when he dreams, that he is so, so tired of even thinking about it.He’s thought about it, he’s cried about it, and he would like to not think or cry about it anymore.

“Now, I wanted to invite you to a ball we’re holding at Castle Candy in a few weeks,” Lazuli says, abruptly switching topics again, and he is grateful for it “Every year, we hold an open ball for everyone who serves the kingdom, as a small thank you for their service.Brother Kit is going, to represent the Order, and he thinks —and I agree— that it would be a very good idea if you came along too.After all, you have been out there, protecting Candia, and there are many people at that ball that I cannot say the same of.”

Another thing he’s learned about Lazuli is that when she begins speaking of something so ridiculous that she must be serious, it is entirely best to go along with whatever she’s saying.She usually turns out to be right, and when she’s not, she’s still mostly right.

“Are you sure I’d be welcome there?” he says “I’m just a monk.Not even a full monk.And-“

“The ball is for everyone who has served the kingdom, whatever their rank or occupation,” Lazuli interrupts “That includes you, does it not?As for the other matter, who will know unless you say anything?No one knows to look, and I suspect that once everyone’s had a glass or two of Fructeran wine, no one will be in any state to think about anything.”

He hesitates.When he was last at Castle Candy, it had seemed so grand and lofty, far above his station.No place for a little monk boy there.But…there’s a part of him, small but eager, that can’t help but wonder what it’s like.To be in great, beautiful halls and years of history around every corner, in every tapestry, every bust, every painting.What must it be like, to walk down those corridors and know that this was a place of home, a place where people belonged?

He knows _he_ doesn’t belong there, but he’s _imagined-_

 _“_ I would be honoured to attend,” he says, starting to bow a little.Lazuli looks alarmed.

“No, please don’t bow!” she says “Of all the formalities, that has never made sense to me.The point of a bow is that it is done for people who have done something to merit it.I did nothing to merit being born royal.If people are to bow to me, I would like it to be for something I have rightfully accomplished, such as a magical innovation, or a powerful spell I have cast.Of course, I can’t say a word about that to Mother, she demands ceremony with every breath- am I being rude again?That was a thank you, and I was being rude about it.You’ll be very welcome, Cumulous.Certainly much more welcome than some of the people who will be in attendance.Dreadful snobs.I don’t know what Mother and Father see in them, or what they’ve done to merit an invitation except being rich.”

There are certainly many chattering and sneering nobles the night of the ball, looking down their noses at the commoner folk gaping at the castle around them.He supposes that everyone’s ball or not, rich and noble people like having other rich and noble people around them. 

But the castle is very grand, now that he’s seeing the nobles’ side of it and not the servants’.Enormous floor to ceiling tapestries drape over the walls, telling stories of House Rocks and Candia in vivid, colourful detail.Bright sconces light up the ballroom, their gleam reflected in every shining piece of jewelry and gleaming plate of armour.Everyone is dressed in their finest, from the expensive fabrics of the rich to the carefully homemade attire of the poor.The walls resound with laughter and music and conversation, and presiding over it all on a magnificent throne is the king.

He can’t help it.He looks.

The king looks…everything and nothing like the image on the coin.The face is the same, the thin lines of it, the big twirled moustache, the narrow point of his chin.But what the image doesn’t capture is…is how _small_ he is, how his big gilded crown slips down over his brow, how his shoulders slump and his back slouches, how his lips twitch too much and his eyes keep darting down to his hands.

The king looks…

The king looks _tired_.He’s trying to hide it, but he’s tapping his fingers against his knee too much, and staring at nothing when there’s no one demanding his attention.Every so often, the queen, who’s sitting beside him, will nudge him with an elbow or a foot when no one’s looking, and he’ll sit up for a little, pretend to look interested.In a few minutes, when the queen’s attention is turned away, he’ll lean back in his throne again and stare off at nothing, a blank polite smile fixed on his thin, twitchy face.

It must be lonely, being a king.Everyone demanding things, no one ever asking how he feels about something or what he wants.It must be tiring, having to constantly care about everything, or pretend to care, anyways.It must be boring, with everything in the world already there and nothing to hope for.

It must be.It’s a difficult job, being a king, ruling a country.It must be hard, knowing that there is no right move, that anything he does will be a disappointment to someone.That _he_ will be a disappointment.That out there, someone sees him as weak, and foolish, and failing, this king who has everything a person could ever want within his grasp, and who can’t summon the strength to care about any of it.That he’s done too much or nothing, that nothing he can do will ever be enough to fix the mistakes he’s made.

It’s possible that the king does not care about any of this.Why should he?Kings and people can only care about so much.

He looks away.

It is a beautiful castle, and it is a magnificent ball.He doesn’t know how to dance, so he can only stand by the side and watch, but that’s alright.There’s so much to look at all the time, so many colours, so much movement, all the lights and the people.It’s almost too much, but he watches it all anyways.When’s the last time he’s ever seen anything like this?It’s something new, a good memory to make.

“Hello.A beautiful evening, isn’t it?”

He turns his head.A beautiful young woman in a deep blue gown with draping sleeves has moved up beside him.She’s definitely not a peasant, although compared to many of the other nobles, she’s much more plainly dressed, with hardly any jewelry except for a beautiful tiara in her long, yellow hair.Her face is kind, and she has a nice voice. 

“Yes, my lady,” he says, scrambling in his mind for any clue about how to address noble people.He’d forgotten to ask Brother Kit, when they were coming here, because he didn’t think that any noble person would want to speak to him.He doesn’t think Lazuli is a very good example of an ordinary noble in wanting to just be called by her name.

“You’re one of Lazuli’s Order, aren’t you?” the woman says, looking him up and down.He doesn’t have any fancy or expensive clothing, none of the monks do, and Brother Kit says that no one expects a monk to be dressed up richly anyways.But his tunic is in good condition, and he’s wearing the Order’s symbol in a small pendant around his neck.

“Yes,” he says, and pauses because not many people are supposed to know what the Order actually does “I am.”

The woman sighs, fondly.

“She’s been talking about that with Rococoa when she thinks I’m not listening,” she says “I really don’t object as much as she thinks I does.We may not see eye to eye about magic, but I do want what’s best for Candia, just like she does.And if Candia’s wellbeing means looking after its magic, then there’s no good in getting uptight about it.What do you think?”

He didn’t see it before, because she doesn’t look much like Lazuli, or the king, for that matter.But he puts it together now, the tiara, the way she speaks, the loving if exasperated way she talks about Lazuli.This is the Princess Citrina, the one the sisters said was a miracle worker.

“Um,” he says cleverly “Yes, your highness.Anything for Candia.”

How should he talk to a princess?How should he talk to a princess who is not Lazuli?How should he talk to a princess whom the Bulb loves?He hasn’t checked in years, but he is certain that he is definitely not a good Bulbian.And in his experience, devout Bulbians don’t like pagans very much.

“And what is your name?” Princess Citrina says, actually sounding like she means it when she asks, and she’s not just being polite “Forgive me if we’ve met before, I feel as though there is something familiar about your face.I meet so many people in my work with the Church, it’s sometimes difficult to remember everyone.”

“My name is Cumulous,” he says, and then his tongue runs away before he can catch it “Cumulous Rocks.”

He bites down on his tongue too late.He doesn’t know why he said that.He’s got no claim to the name.He’s just Cumulous, and maybe Brother Cumulous one day soon, when Brother Kit and the other elders decide that he’s ready to be a full monk.It must be this place, this castle, getting to his head.Too many faces just shy of familiar.

“Rocks?” Princess Citrina says, her gentle face lighting up “You’re of House Rocks?”

He can tell the truth here.That his tongue slipped, that he’s not of House Rocks.He isn’t any relation, any family.He’s just a simple commoner, and she must have misheard.He-

“Only distantly,” he says, Lazuli’s words in her laboratory tripping off his false tongue “I’m not- it isn’t anything from the main family.Your family.Not a close relation.”

Princess Citrina looks at him with a lot of interest, suddenly resembling Lazuli a lot more.

“Lazuli should have said!” she says, clapping her hands together “Does she know?Of course she does, she’s very clever in finding things out.Well, I believe family is family, no matter how close or how far.Do you know anyone else in the House?”

“Only La- Princess Lazuli,” he stumbles out “I- I didn’t find out about the royal family until a few years ago.My parents never said.”

It’s a feeble lie, everyone knows who House Rocks is, but she doesn’t catch it.Princess Citrina has a look on her face like she’s only half listening, trying to figure something out in her head.Lazuli gets exactly like that, sometimes, when she’s in the middle of a complex equation. 

“Don’t tell me,” Princess Citrina says thoughtfully “One of great-grandfather’s other descendants?No wonder Lazuli didn’t say anything.I know she doesn’t have a very high opinion of the Church and some of its beliefs.I mean, there are some bishops who have very strong ideas about polygamy, but personally, I don’t think it’s right to hold people who were never Bulbians to Bulbian standards, do you?”

If only the sisters could hear Princess Citrina now!This isn’t anything he’s heard from any Bulbian before, and he doesn’t think it’s something that the Church would like to hear very much.If she’s sincere —and he thinks she is, she doesn’t seem like a liar— she must be a very strange Bulbian.

He’s quickly learning that Lazuli is not the only member of her family to defy expectations.He wonders, briefly, where they got it from.Certainly not the tired king on the throne, who goes along with everything just because he hasn’t got the strength or will to say what he really thinks.

“Besides, they say great-grandfather really loved all his partners, and that’s what’s important in a relationship, isn’t it?Real love,” Princess Citrina says, a beautiful smile splitting across her face.It’s a nice smile, a real one.He decides, then and there, that Bulbian or not, she is a good person.Not the kind of good person that the Church would like, but an actual good person that the Church should be so lucky to have.

“There you are, Citrina!”

A young woman in a beautiful pink gown with a tiara nestled in her blue hair emerges from the crowd.She looks a lot more like Lazuli, although younger than Lazuli and Princess Citrina both.

“Sapphria!” Princess Citrina says “Come and meet-“

“Have you seen Lazuli?” Princess Sapphria says with a huge grin on her face “Look over there.In the corner, behind the columns.”

He follows her pointing finger, although of course, she isn’t talking to him.Along one side of the room, almost hidden by a pair of columns, Lazuli is standing, having an animated conversation with someone.Even from this distance, she’s very obviously blushing, and she looks like she’s talking at a hundred miles an hour, like she’s nervous and excited at the same time.

“Look who she’s talking to,” Princess Sapphria says, the smile coming through in her voice.He moves a little to get a better angle, and sees a beautiful woman in a pink gown with long blonde hair and deep brown caramel skin, looking at Lazuli as though she’s the only thing in the world. 

“Is that Duchess Caramelinda again?” Princess Citrina says “Oh, aren’t they wonderful?True love is one of the most beautiful things in the world.”

“Oh yes,” Princess Sapphria says, and her tone is strange, like she’s trying very hard to sound very innocent “Very beautiful.”

Princess Citrina looks at her suddenly with very sharp, very keen eyes.

“Sapphria, where’s Amethar-“

Lazuli is whirling around in a high colour.Dramatically kneeling down on one knee in front of Lazuli’s companion is a boy maybe a couple years older than him, dressed finely, with locks of green hair.He’s gesturing expansively, as though he were making some grand declaration of love, and he has the biggest grin on his face as he talks to the woman, Caramelinda. 

Lazuli looks ready to commit murder.Caramelinda, pressing her lips together, is not doing a very good job of hiding her smile.

“Ah,” Princess Citrina sighs “There he is.Please excuse me, cousin, I should deal with this before they cause a commotion.Or more of one.Come on, Sapphria, _you_ can handle Amethar.”

Princess Citrina marches off with a determined step, Princess Sapphria still grinning widely as she follows.

He watches the scene play out from afar.A strong, chocolate woman is already there by the time the princesses make their way across the room, and she’s not exactly hauling, but she certainly pulls the boy, Prince Amethar, to his feet by his collar, and she looks like she’s lecturing him about something.Lazuli looks furious, and if he were Prince Amethar, he should be terrified to see the look on her face, but Prince Amethar is still grinning like the milk cat that got at the cream.

The Caramelinda woman has a hand up to her mouth, but she’s very clearly smiling as she watches the scene, and her other hand is placed gently on Lazuli’s arm.Princess Citrina says something, her hands held out in a soothing manner, and the chocolate woman, who must be Princess Rococoa, releases Prince Amethar and shoves him at Princess Sapphria, who whirls him off onto the dance floor.Lazuli looks grateful for all of two seconds, and then Princess Citrina gets a look on her face, a look not unlike Princess Sapphria’s, and says something that has Lazuli blushing all over her face and Caramelinda laughing out loud.

It’s…nice.It’s sweet.It’s a family moment, a private moment in the middle of all the public gaiety.It almost feels uncomfortable, seeing them like this, like some kind of lurker looking in from a distance.Well, he is.It isn’t his family, he’s got no right to be seeing this.

Still, there’s a feeling in his chest, like something sweet and warm and sad all at the same time.It makes him feel good, to see them all together, smiling and happy, or mostly happy, Lazuli still looks mortified.But they love each other.That’s clear to see. 

The thing about the Rocks family, the most important thing, he thinks, is that whatever they do, whatever they feel, they can’t help spreading it to everyone around them.Like sugar, like sweetness.Even a little time spent in their company is enough to inspire great feelings, great deeds.And when they’re together, as a family, it’s almost enough to make anyone feel as though they belong too, as though they’re… as though they’re family too.

A cousin.A distant one.There’s no obligation with far-removed cousins.Technically a relation, not really anyone important, family by a few drops of blood and a few slight resemblances.Enough to be part of the name, not enough to really belong in the ways that family demands, and that’s fine.It’s enough to be here, at the edges, seeing their happiness.It’s as much as anyone can ask for.

Cumulous Rocks.It has a ring to it.

Once upon a time, there was a boy who was a cloud, but he was also made of rocks too.It had been almost a complete accident.He hadn’t had any intention of any such thing when he made himself, piece by piece, the person that he was.Rocks do not usually make good companions for clouds, they tend to weigh them down, and that defeats the entire purpose.Truth be told, he still isn’t quite sure how the rocks got there in the first place, and he’s not sure whether or not he really wants them there at all.

But they’re there now, and they’re awfully difficult to get out.

Once upon a time, there was a boy who was a cloud, and he was watching a family, his family, from a distance.

He steps backs, and settles into his place.

* * *

Once upon a time, there was a boy who was a cloud, and the boy grew up.

He finishes his training and becomes a full monk.Moyra shows up at the monastery for his final vows, and after knocking him out one last time —with a staff blow to the forehead for old times’ sake— she makes her way through Brother Kit and the rest of her old students, just to keep them on their toes, she says.

No one stays on their toes very long against her, but it’s all in good spirit.He got a few good hits on her, real hits that she didn’t let land, and he lasted for almost a minute, so he’s very content with that.

He sees Lazuli more, as a full monk.He carries a lot of messages between her and the Order, sensitive information that she does not trust to the vagaries of the postal system.Sometimes they just have tea, and she tells him about her latest research project or her ongoing courtship of the Duchess of Meringue.

“You’re the only one in the family who doesn’t make fun of me at all about Cara,” she says, pouring sweet tea for them both “Even Citrina’s been talking about wedding bells lately.How many times do I have to say it?We’ll get married when it’s the right time, and not a moment before.”

“Princess Citrina sent me a card,” he says “This past High Frosting’s Eve.A well wishes card.She wrote it herself, and she remembered my name.”

“That’s Citrina,” Lazuli says fondly, though she rolls her eyes “Every holiday or feast, she personally writes cards for everyone in the family.She’d do it for all the servants and everyone in the castle too, but she doesn’t have nearly enough time for that.Everyone else gets a generic note, but they love it anyways.She’s kind like that.Far too kind for the Church, but just try telling her that.She’s determined to be a force of reform.”

“Maybe they need someone like Princess Citrina,” he says “She’s a good person.That’s what the Church is supposed to be about.”

“I wonder,” Lazuli stirs her tea distractedly “Oh, did I tell you?I read the most interesting essay yesterday.A Bulbian scholar, but she has some fascinating ideas about the relationship between pagan spirits and the celestial plane.I think it has some real potential for our understanding of fey spirits and how they operate.”

He has many more duties besides carrying messages for the Order.They’re getting bigger now, more people joining them.Scholars, mostly, and former Bulbians, but some promising fighters too, and he’s one of the brothers and sisters that trains those.He starts appreciating Moyra in an entirely new light, especially when the novices still can’t throw a proper punch after two weeks of teaching.

Patience.That’s a tough thing to learn.

He goes on more missions, a lot of them, because they’re always few in warrior monks, and he’s younger and more energetic than most of them.Mostly, it isn’t anything like the first one.Repairing a damaged shrine, rescuing a magical artifact from destruction by zealous Bulbians, freeing a few Sweetening Path adherents from jail cells.Sometimes there’s a wild creature he has to fight, and if it won’t flee, he does his best to put it down quickly.

Sometimes there are fights though, proper fights that aren’t just knocking out a guard from behind.There’s stories of unrest across Calorum, especially in neighbouring Fructera, and Candia isn’t untouched by the trouble.Gangs of bandits and marauders haunt the border regions, and the Church seems to be getting stronger and more powerful.Even though the Order’s mandate is to protect Candia’s magic, if he has the opportunity to take out a few thugs menacing a village, well, he can’t just stand by and do nothing.

He learns to kill, properly.Not that he doesn’t know how to take a life.That’s what he’s trained to do, and he’s good at it.But there’s the part that no one can teach, that he’s got to learn himself, about going on afterwards and being ok with going on.It’s not that he regrets it most of the time when he has to kill people.He learned about survival long before he was a monk, and about doing what had to be done.It’s more-

It’s about life, isn’t it?That he can take it away from someone in order to save his own, and what gives him more right to live than the other person?It can’t be about being good or bad.He’s sure there’s lots of people who would see him as a bad person that doesn’t deserve to live, and there’s people that would make sure he was dead too.

It’s about the crunch of his staff as it shatters bone, and the thrilling rush as he draws a life into his own, a life that was someone else’s, and now it’s his to do with as he wants.That he will go on living, stronger than before, because he wants to live, and unlike the other person, he has the means to make sure he does.

It’s about power.And it’s about people.And that’s a hard lesson to learn, that he, _he_ has power over people, over their living and dying.He can’t even say he didn’t ask for it.He chose to keep training as a monk, he chose to join the Order, and he chose to take his final vows.  He chose to live, he's choosing to live, and that means something.

He learns to kill properly.Not that he’s getting cut up over every single one, but it’s like Brother Kit told him.The value of a life, and not forgetting that.The powers he has, and not forgetting that.It’s the responsibility he owes when he’s made the decision, again and again, to be a monk of death.

It gets easier.It helps that he’s good at it, fighting and killing.He leads a raid on a Ceresian camp of hardtack mercenaries that have been camped out in a sacred grove, and which happen to be terrorizing the local village at the same time.He loses no monks, but the Hungry One feeds well that night.One of the junior monks, looking through the mercenaries’ things, finds a letter of employment from a Vegetanian noble.They bring it back to the elder monks.

“This is most disturbing,” Brother Kit looks around at the other monks on the council “If the Vegetanians are hiring Ceresians to attack Candia, these recent attacks are more than border unrest.We must inform Archmage Lazuli at once.Thank you, Brother Cumulous, you and the others have done well.”

“Is it war?” he asks, because he doesn’t know much about how politics work, but he does know about fighting, and there’s been more fighting lately than there’s ever been “Should we be preparing?”

They aren’t prepared for a war, if there will be one, but they’ve still got to do it, haven’t they?Candia’s magic is nothing without Candia, to protect one is to protect the other.He doesn’t know what they can do against armies marching into the land, but it’s their duty to do something, no matter how difficult it may be.

“We will seek Archmage Lazuli’s guidance on this,” Brother Kit says after a long pause “But I see no harm in being watchful.”

A week later, he sees Lazuli for the last time.She’s coming out of the monastery’s council room, and she looks tired, and sad, and when she sees him, she doesn’t try and pretend she’s not any of those things.

“Cumulous,” she says “Walk with me, will you?I’m just leaving, but I would like to speak with you before I go.”

He falls in step with her.They walk in silence for a while.It isn’t until they reach the gates that she stops, turns to face him.

“War is coming,” she says, sounding very tired, and very sad “Father doesn’t want it, but it’s coming all the same.Not yet, not right away, we still have a little time, but it will be here in a few years.”

“The Order will do everything it can to help,” he says at once “I’m sure Brother Kit and the other monks will want to help protect Candia.”

“They do,” she says “But they can’t.The Order must not take part in the war that is to come.”

He blinks.

“But you created us to protect Candia, protect its magic,” he says, unsure if he’s understanding her properly “If war comes to the land, its magic will be under threat.”

“Not its greatest threat,” Lazuli shakes her head “The danger of this war will be nothing compared to the things to come.I’ve seen it, Cumulous.In my visions.All the possible futures, all the things that could be, all the things that won’t, and the one thing that’s the same in all of them is the Church.The Church survives, stronger than ever, and that is the real threat, that is the end game.This war will be terrible, but Candia will survive.After…I don’t know.I just…don’t know.”

He’s never heard her scared before.But now there is real fear in her voice, a fear deeper than not knowing, but a fear from knowing. 

“Candia will need you, Cumulous,” she says, looking straight at him, eye to eye “When this war is over, Candia and its magic will need the Order more than ever.I can’t tell you exactly when or how, but there will come a time when the magic of Candia will be in more danger than ever before.The Order must survive, and it must remain secret to do so.”

He…understands.Actually, no he doesn’t, not really.He doesn’t understand it at all.This is not what the Order was made for, to stand by silently, secretly, while Candia suffers.But what he does understand is that he trusts her.She hasn’t led them wrong yet, and he may not understand much about magic or how her visions work exactly, but he trusts that she knows what she’s doing with them.

“Brother Kit and the council have already sworn vows that the Order will not intervene until the time comes,” Lazuli says “Will you swear the same to me?I know it isn’t who you are to sit back and let things happen.You want to help.But you can’t.Not yet.Please, trust me.”

“I trust you,” he says, slowly, because she’s right.Standing by quietly, hiding away, he knows how to do that.He’s got a lot of experience.Never makes it any easier. “Do you know…what will be the right time?How will I know?”

Lazuli closes her eyes.Her lips move silently, and her fingers flex.A crease appears on her brow, and he can’t even begin to imagine all the things she’s seeing, all the things that might be or never will.What a terrible thing that must be.A great power, magic like no other, but terrible all the same.

Finally, she opens her eyes.She looks at him, really looks at him, not seeing anyone or anything else.

“When the emperor lies dying, the time will be at hand,” she says, her voice like the low peals of a great bell echoing in a mountain valley “The window of the Great Cathedral will shatter, and a ship will flee in the storm, and war will come to Candia once more.”

Emperor?There is no emperor in Calorum, or even an empire.Or not yet.It’s a warm, sunny day, but a shiver runs down his spine.

“I don’t know,” Lazuli shakes her head, and her voice is hers again “That far, the picture is unclear.I see glimpses, flashes of what may be and what may not be.The visions of shattered glass come most often.That should mean that it is the future most likely to come, but nothing is ever certain.It may never come to pass.”

But the way she says it is like a prophecy, and the way she denies it is more hope than reason.He decides to keep a close eye on any emperors that start appearing.

“You have my word,” he says, bowing his head “I will do as you ask.”

Lazuli sighs, a deep one, of relief.

“Thank you, Cumulous,” she says “It is a great relief to me to know that I can rely on you and the Order.”

There’s something in the way she says that.A note of something.Sorrow.Deep sorrow.And fear.She’s afraid.She’s sad, and she’s afraid.She’s never afraid.Fear is the unknown, and she loves the unknown, researching and discovering and creating something new.She must be scared, then, of something she’s seen.In a vision.Something that will happen.Not may, but will.

He looks at her, _looks_ at her, and in her eyes, he sees the shadowy maw of the Hungry One.

“Lazuli,” he begins, helplessly.Lazuli smiles at him, soft, and so very, very sad.

“Cumulous,” she says “It will be fine.I have made preparations.Candia will survive.”

“But _you_ -“ he bites down a hundred objections when he sees her eyes.She’s scared.She’s _scared._ She’s a brilliant, inspiring woman who could have a whole life in front of her.Become the greatest archmage the world has ever seen.Have a long, happy marriage with the love of her life.Lead Candia into a shining age of knowledge and discovery.And she won’t.The life she could have had, the happiness she deserves, and she won’t and she _knows_ it.

The thing about dying, the truly terrifying thing about dying that he’s learning right now, is not just when it will happen or how.It’s what doesn’t happen next, and who has to live with that after.A life taken out of the world leaves a hole where it was before, a gap where it fit into others’ lives.And the people who are left with that gap have to live on, knowing that there’s something missing, that there will always be something missing.That nothing will ever happen there again, that everything that might have been and could have been is lost forever. 

Dying doesn’t end with death.It lives on, in the empty spaces and the reminder of what they will never do.It’s the pain and the grief of those left behind, the fear of how they will live on, how they will suffer.

There’s her fear.Her sadness for what could have been, it will pass in time, is passing now.It’s fear that hurts her now, will keep on hurting her until the moment she dies.Her nation.Her people.Her family.No future is set in stone, not even for the greatest wizard in all the lands.

He plants his staff in the ground, and he kneels before her.

“I will look after them,” he says “As much as it is in my power to do so.Your family.…Our family.”

Lazuli closes her eyes, but a tear seeps out nonetheless, trickling slowly down her cheek.And he looks at her, and he doesn’t see the great Archmage Lazuli, or the Princess Lazuli, or even Lazuli Rocks, daughter and sister of House Rocks, the family Rocks. He looks at her, and he sees someone who has given everything she has, her heart, her spirit, her life, to what she believes in, and who will give her death too without a second thought for a future that even she cannot know.

He sees her.And when he remembers her, remembers her brilliance and her kindness and her shining inspiration, he’ll also remember her standing here, before the gates, trying not to cry because she is a young woman with the weight of the world on her shoulders, and she will never know the world she creates by her sacrifice.

What a terrible, terrible honour.What an injustice.

It takes a minute, but after two more tears, she creates a sort of composure for herself.The kind of thing that princesses must know how to do.She opens her eyes again, and they’re clear, if still shining, and he can almost miss the shadow hiding deep within them.

“Thank you,” she says softly, the corners of her eyes creasing as she gives him a small smile “I want you to know- that is, I hope you know that you’re a good person, Cumulous.You’re a good person, and it is an honour to have you in the family.So look after yourself.Because you’re family too.And if you will protect House Rocks, that includes you,”

There’s a lump on his throat, but it isn’t horror or shame or even unease.Lazuli reaches up behind her neck, and unclasps the necklace she’s wearing, a simple thing with the pendant of a hard rock eye set in lapis lazuli, her symbol.She gathers it in her hand, and holds it out to him.

“I want you to have this,” she says “To remember me.So that when I’m- when I’m gone, you can look at it, and remember when Lazuli Rocks lived.”

He takes it, cradles it in his palm as though it were the most precious thing in the world, and maybe it is.

“Thank you,” he says, and tries to say everything, everything she is, everything she’s been to him, all of it in those two words “I will.”

When the news comes of Lazuli’s death, her sacrifice in battle to win the day for the Fructeran noble who will one day rule all Calorum as emperor, after he’s comforted the other, weeping monks, wept with them side by side, he climbs up, by himself, to the top of the mountain where their new monastery is, hidden away from the rest of Candia proper.The air is thin up here, above even the very clouds.Up here, all Candia is invisible, shrouded in a pink and white blanket of cotton candy cloud.

He takes out the pendant, and he remembers her on that last day.Her fear.Her resolve.Her.She had not turned to look back as she left, back straight, shoulders squared, facing her future head on.She was brave.She was scared.She was.Was.

Is.

The eye of the pendant gleams.A gleam off the sun.The look in her eye when she spoke about magic, about Candia, about the world that could be and the world she wanted to make. 

He puts the necklace on, the weight settling around his neck like a burden, like a promise.Lazuli Rocks is dead.Lazuli Rocks is alive.Lazuli Rocks had more than a dream.Lazuli Rocks had a vision.Many visions, actually, but she had made one for herself, plucked from the vagaries of the future by the will of her spirit.

Lazuli Rocks lives.And her work is not yet done.

He descends.His work is just beginning.

The war goes on, and the war ends.In Castle Candy, a new king sits on the throne, alone unfallen out of the whole House Rocks, with a queen by his side, Lazuli’s love.They have twins, two princesses, every bit as determined and spirited as their aunts, if the reports are true.Servants talk, people talk.The castle, such a large place, such an empty place now, resounds with their shouts and their laughter, they say.Makes it all a little bit brighter.

(He remembers a night of music and dancing and lights, and a big, happy family, loving, devoted.He remembers Rococoa, so tall and strong that she could lift her baby brother with one hand.He remembers Citrina, the look on her face as she spoke of love.He still has every card she ever sent him.He remembers Sapphria, grinning with mischief and delight.)

(He remembers Lazuli.)

A new empire rises in Calorum, ruled by the emperor Lazuli gave her life for, and the Bulbosi Church rises with it.They become the only religion in the land, the only power, and every day, the magic of Candia fades a little more.In the heartland, the standing stones all but disappear, although the remote villages still hide theirs, disguised as cultural relics.Churches and cathedrals and Bulbian monasteries spring up everywhere, imposing reminders of the monolith of the Bulb.It gets harder and harder to move around openly, to speak out against the Church.

The Order’s numbers dwindle.If they had difficulty recruiting before, it is near impossible now.A bad flu one terrible winter sends nearly half their elders to the Hungry One, and the ones that are left get older and older.Occasionally, a devotee of the Sweetening Path makes their way to them, following old rumours and half remembered stories, and they are welcomed eagerly.But not many, not enough, and so few are fit to fight.

He pushes himself harder and harder.Goes on more and more missions, because someone needs to be out there, keeping Candia’s magic alive, and there are less and less that can handle a two week journey on foot across the country with enough strength and skill to defend themselves. 

The teleportation circles start breaking, some from the destruction of their sister stones, most from no one knowing how to maintain them, how to fix them.Stepping into one is a gamble with the Hungry One.They lose a junior monk that way, coming back from a simple mission to clean up an ancient forest shrine.She steps into the circle and arrives screaming, a dozen bones broken and her blood seeping into the floor.She dies quickly, before anyone can heal her.

He’s the only monk to risk the teleportation circles after that.Even then, only in the greatest of need.But he’s always been fairly hardy.“Resilience,” Sister Radeshelle had called it once, a lifetime ago.And he’s not that old yet, that he’s too wise to take the risk.

He’s away on another failed, fruitless mission trying to save an ancient Sucrosian artifact from destruction by the local church, when the news comes that Moyra has died.Quietly, without a fuss, all the arrangements already made.He arrives back at the monastery to find a letter waiting for him, written in her sharp, bold handwriting.

 _I know when it is my time to go_ , she says, her brisk, no-nonsense voice almost saying the words in his head. _We all have to die some time, and I’ve had just the amount of time that I’m due.I am content.I have lived a full life, and if by your philosophy, we continue to live after death through the people that love us, then I am certain that I shall not be dead for a good many years yet.But do not live for me, Cumulous.Live your own life, and if you do that, then you have learned from me well, and I shall, as you say, live on._

There are several postscripts.

_P.S. I am very proud of you.You are the greatest student that I have ever trained, and I know that you have it in you to do great things._

_P.P.S. Page 22 of the journal I gave you has an error.It ought to read that the transference of life energy is manifested both in the healing of wounds_ _and_ _in the absorption of the natural sugars in the body.The latter does not merely accompany the former, it is a unified physical and magical process._

_P.P.P.S. Don’t forget your stance.You always rely on your front foot and not enough on your back foot.You’re a monk, not a swashbuckler.Balance is your greatest offence and defence.If you practice your basic forms every day, the problem will correct itself._

She is, as she often is, absolutely correct.He cries that night, a night for mourning and grief but not despair or regret, and the next morning, he gets up, goes to the training room, and goes through the basic forms again and again and again.Concentrating on the rote of the forms is as cathartic as anything else, and brings back memories from long ago.Standing in Moyra’s garden, still disbelieving that he’s even here and doing this, trying to copy Moyra doing the most basic step-and-turn.He’d been so young then, hardly understanding what he was doing, but wanting to learn so badly.

He understands now, the lesson that no one can teach.That death is beautiful and complicated and different every time.That some people die, and it’s terrible and unfair and shakes the whole world off its axis.That some people die, and it’s sad and painful but it’s also right and good.That some people die, and it’s not anything all.That death is always the same, but never the same thing twice.

Time passes.Brother Kit is the last of the elder monks to pass away, still hale and loquacious to the last when he goes to meet the Hungry One.It’s peaceful, and before he goes, he officially passes the Sugarspun Staff, the staff of the chief elder, down to him.He’s borrowed it before, for more dangerous missions, but Brother Kit’s never made any secret of the fact that it will be his one day.

“The Order is in your capable hands, Brother Cumulous,” he says, as he settles into his meditation pose for the last time “I don’t need to tell you to look after Candia or the Order, I know you’ll do that, and you’ll do it well.The Archmage Lazuli believed in you, and so do I.”

He doesn’t feel old enough or wise enough to be an elder brother, but there is no one else.The other monks on the council helps, the elder monks made sure to train their successors well, and they get by, running the monastery, trying to protect the last vestiges of Candian magic that remain in the land.It’s difficult, especially since he can’t go out on as many missions now.If he dies, there is no one yet who is ready to replace him, who can keep their mission alive.

So he gets on with it.As Moyra would say, there’s no point in complaining about what can’t be helped.

And then one day, twenty five years after Lazuli’s death, the news comes to the monastery.

The emperor is dying.King Amethar has been invited to Comida, probably to participate in the grand tournament the Concord is holding there, probably to be named the new emperor, or so the rumours say.Everyone knows that Emperor Gustavo Uvano holds the king as one of his closest friends.Who else would he trust?The imperious Ceresians?The untrustworthy Meatlanders?The scheming Vegetanians?

“Imagine that!” the younger monks twitter to each other “King Amethar, the new emperor of all Calorum!”

King Amethar is on his way to Comida, accompanied by the twin princesses, Jet and Ruby Rocks.Queen Caramelinda remains at Castle Candy, looking after the kingdom, much as she’s done for nearly twenty years.That’s what everyone knows, though no one says it.

He remembers Lazuli’s words.The vision of shattered glass.The death of an emperor, and a ship fleeing into a storm.

The empire is Bulbian.The new emperor or empress would be crowned in a cathedral, wouldn’t they, probably by the Pontifex herself.The Great Cathedral of St. Arugula in Comida, likely as not.

He instructs the Order to make ready for- well, he doesn’t know what _for_ , exactly, but war is coming, and even if there are few in the Order that can fight, there are still those who can heal, those who can research.He doesn’t know what the Order can do against even one army that marches into the land, much less all the imperial forces of the Concord, but the time for remaining hidden is past.

This is what they’ve been waiting for, all these long years.The time for action is at hand.

He looks up the nearest teleportation circles still standing by the coast.He doesn’t know when exactly, he doesn’t know where exactly, but he knows that a ship leaving Comida for Candia only has so many routes, and he can be very fast when he needs to be.He has a feeling he’ll need to be soon.

After waiting so very long, after all those years of trying and failing, bit by bit, to protect Candia’s magic, everything happens all at once.King Amethar and the princesses have only been gone a handful of days —and what a chaotic few days they are!two assassination attempts on the king himself, the other kingdoms must really believe he’s going to be named emperor— when the world turns upside down.

First is the news of the emperor’s death, early in the morning because everyone knew it was only a matter of time, and the announcements across the land were only waiting for the signal.He wastes no time.He takes Fluffwind, leaves Brother Snickersnack in charge with a few last minute instructions, and goes to the teleport room. 

The journey is rough, as it often is nowadays, but some greater power must be smiling down on him, because he comes through without a scratch.He arrives in a coastal Candian village where many still secretly follow the old ways and no one remarks on the sudden appearance of a stranger from the hut where they hide their standing stones.He’s talking with a grizzled old fisherman about ship routes when the rumours start flying in, neighbours from Fructeran villages just a few miles down the coast come to gossip and exclaim and warn the people they’ve lived next to for generations.

News of war.War on Candia.The king is an adulterer.He has been excommunicated from the Church.Candia has left the Concord.Candia is at war with the Concord.House Rocks is missing.House Rocks is dead.House Rocks tried to kill the holy Pontifex.House Rocks has fled.House Rocks is gone.House Rocks is fallen.House Rocks still stands.

It’s all a chaos of excited rumour and distorted news, but he knows this.Lazuli would not have entertained a future in which House Rocks fell.Lazuli would not have cooperated with any future where her brother and her nieces were slain by the Bulbosi Church.She simply would not.He does not believe that they are dead or fallen.House Rocks is strong so long as they have each other, and the king has his daughters, and the princesses have their father.

No, he is certain that House Rocks survives.

All the rest of it, it’s all possible.But it’s not important right now, whether or not any of it is true.He leaves the fisherman, who is too distracted by the news to talk to him any more.That’s fine.He doesn’t need his help.Not now. 

Near the village, great cliffs of weathered candy chalk tower, their white crags standing watch over the beach and the sea below.As he stands at its very edge, clutches at the necklace around his neck, looks out across the horizon to the thick white currents of the yogurt sea, the dark, heavy clouds that swim low in the distance, there’s a feeling growing in his chest, an instinct no reason or logic can explain.

 _There_ , it sings into his ears, into his bones, into his blood, _There is where you need to be.Across the sea, in the heart of the storm and the ship that flees in the night.What are you waiting for?They need you now.Go, fly, fly with the wind and find them.Find your family.Go on, go on, you know where you need to be.Fly.Fly.Fly!_

Once upon a time, there was a boy who was a cloud.He hadn’t a father or a mother, and so he had had to make himself.And he had some trouble along the way, and he also had a helping hand or two along the way, but he’d gotten there in the end, figured out who he was and gone about making himself who he knew he was. 

And then he’d gotten a sister, and a purpose, and a future, a whole life before him, and he’d chosen to _live._

What is a cloud?A cloud is its own creation, an attraction of gas molecules that remember being something else once and come together to form something tangible, something visible, something new and renewing.A cloud is in the mind of the beholder, the stuff of thought, meaning and purpose given to its form.A peculiar shape, a sign of rain, an omen of doom.A cloud is a natural phenomenon.A cloud is a very human idea.

A cloud is a cloud, and a person is a person. 

Once upon a time-

People write their own stories.

He steps off the cliff, and _soars_.

**Author's Note:**

> My soundtrack for the last scene was just Regina Spektor's "The Call" on loop over and over.
> 
> Come cry with me about cotton candy monks and the general emotions of hope, love, and family that Dimension 20 elicits, over on tumblr at thevalleyisjolly(.)tumblr(.)com, or check out my AO3 profile for my statement about transformative works!
> 
> Summary of the first section, for those who wish to skip over it: Cumulous is born in a Bulbian abbey. His mother leaves immediately after birth, so he grows up unaware of who his parents are. The Bulbian nuns raise their wards according to strict Bulbian ideals. They are taught to believe that the Bulb is good, and that they should be grateful for everything they have (and therefore not complain), and that they should obey without question. Cumulous is a very active child, and often gets singled out by the nuns for chastisement and punishment. When the nuns start using social shaming as a tactic (punishing all the children while making it clear who they believe is at fault), he begins to try and become quiet and invisible. This causes a morphological change - his hard blue skin softens and fades into spun, dull grey flesh.
> 
> He continues seeking the approval of (or avoiding chastisement from) the nuns. One night, as he's recovering in the infirmary from an illness, he hears the Mother Superior talking with another nun. They reveal that he is the bastard child of the king and a nameless servant girl, and express beliefs that he will always be wicked because of this. He realizes that the nuns have been lying to him his entire life, about his parents, about who he is, and possibly even about the Bulb itself. This initially lowers his sense of self worth, as he believes that he is not worthy of the Bulb, but near the end of the scene, he begins rejecting Bulbian doctrine altogether. The scene ends with him running away from the abbey.


End file.
